


Redheaded Stepchildren

by ZebraWallpaper



Series: Redheaded Stepchildren [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Coming of Age, Gen, Sibling Bonding, Siblings, Teen Girl Problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:29:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 73,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2061129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZebraWallpaper/pseuds/ZebraWallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about Debbie and Ian's relationship over the six months following the end of Season 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Hand Me Downs

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not in line with the spoilers for Season 5. 
> 
> Also, I wrote this while under the impression that in Season 4 Debbie was in 9th grade and Carl was in 8th--apparently I promoted them each up a grade from where they actually are, but since Shameless plays fast and loose with age/time, I decided to leave it. This does not become relevant until Chapter 6, though, and it's not really a big part of the story, just the subject of some conversation. Fair warning for this minor canon inconsistency, though.

When Debbie and Carl were kids, Ian was Superman. He could run faster than any other kid on the block, jump higher and further, and cross a vacant lot with a glass of water balanced on his head. He could climb anything, had once on a bet even scaled the side of an abandoned factory, swinging himself into a broken third-story window. He was the neighborhood champion of holding his breath, balancing on one foot, walking on his hands, and playing bloody knuckles. But he was never a jerk about it. Everybody liked Ian; he was the one they called on to solve disputes and break ties and to fetch stray frisbees and balls off of roofs. He was the only kid who could be trusted to be fair and who could be counted on not to screw around up there and break his neck.

He excelled at sports, but when he got to high school he was drawn to the ROTC instead. He walked around in that uniform, carrying his head high, looking for all the world like the rare neighborhood kid who was going places. In a neighborhood where nobody had any plans beyond waiting around for their disability check or getting pregnant to pick up another welfare stipend, Ian had a plan to get out. Ian had a plan and there wasn't anyone who knew him who doubted that he'd pull it off.  
  
Debbie and Carl were always proud to have Ian for an older brother. They were proud of all their older siblings, who were like celebrities among the neighborhood kids. Fiona was the most gorgeous girl on the south side. Lip was a genius. But Ian was a superhero.  
  
Ian had a job like a grown-up where they trusted him as if he wasn't a south side ragamuffin, and where his boss bought him gifts as bonuses, like new shoes and a coat and an ipod, gifts that made Debbie and Carl green with envy. Ian had been outside of the city more than anyone else they knew because of ROTC retreats. He’d been to Michigan and Iowa, Wisconsin, and Missouri. Even Lip had only been as far as Krazy Kaplan's just over the border to Indiana. Ian told Debbie and Carl that they could have anything they wanted to, could go anywhere they wanted to, they just had to figure out a way.

He told them they could be anything they wanted to too, and he was living proof. Ian decided that he wanted his scrawny body to look like the ones in his magazines that he thought nobody knew about, and he set his mind to making it happen. Ian decided he didn't want to be like all the other sad sacks living in their neighborhood and he set his mind to making that happen too. He was going to get out and not come back until he was a hero.

Then Ian walked out one morning in his ROTC uniform and didn't come back. And Carl and Debbie wondered if he'd just found a way to make his plans happen even earlier than he thought. They’d been used to the idea for a long time that Ian was going to go away, and it wasn’t so surprising that he’d engineered a way to do it sooner. He’d always been able to see further ahead than the rest of them.  
  
But then he came back and everything was off and weird about him, and then they were there peering into Mickey Mikovich's dark bedroom, where Ian lay, looking frail and decimated. Lip and Fiona were nowhere to be found, and Carl and Debbie were left helplessly staring at the broken body of their Superman.  
  
It didn't feel like anything could ever be right again after that.

* * *

  
There's a stupid memory that keeps popping into Debbie's head and won't go away. A year or two back the living room was filled with clothes. Fiona had instructed the siblings to empty out their dressers and closets for the annual ritual of trying things on before the start of the school year and passing down what didn't fit. Fiona supervised, taking careful note of what gaps in their wardrobes were going to need to be filled with newly purchased clothes, working out the calculations of who was allotted how much of the squirrel fund. It was always a contentious day. Debbie and Lip usually made out the best since there wasn't anybody to pass down clothes to Lip, and Fiona's clothes rarely lasted long enough for Debbie to grow into them. Ian and Carl historically made out the worst. This day had shaken out differently, though.  
  
Debbie had finished trying on what little there was for her and was entertaining Liam on the couch when Lip and Ian started arguing about something. She wasn't paying attention to them, though. Instead, she was listening with amusement as Fiona attempted to convince Carl that he could get away with wearing a couple of Debbie's out-grown turtlenecks.  
  
"Turtlenecks are turtlenecks," Fiona coaxed, "There aren't boy turtlenecks and girl turtlenecks..."  
  
"Fiona," Ian had said then, but she didn't hear him.  
  
"Then why does it say 'girls' on the tag?" Carl argued.  
  
"Fiona," Ian said again.  
  
"Is that the problem?" Fiona picked up one of the turtlenecks, flipped it inside out and promptly ripped out the tag, "There. Fixed."  
  
"It's still a girl's shirt," Carl said.  
  
"Fiona..."  
  
"Nope. Now it's gender-neutral."  
  
"Neutral?" Carl laughed, "Like a dog when you cut off its balls?"  
  
"That’s _neutered_ ," Debbie corrected him.  
  
"Fiona!" Lip said, finally wresting her attention away from Carl and the turtlenecks. They all turned to look at the boys and promptly started snickering, despite the death look Ian was giving. He was stuffed into a pair of Lip's discarded jeans, showing off a good five inches of sock at the ankle, and a skin-tight sweater that left exposed another several inches of bare wrist.  
  
"Dumbass had another growth spurt this summer," Lip said.  
  
Fiona let a giggle escape before she managed to suppress it and ask, "They all fit like that?"  
  
Ian nodded.  
  
"Be less noticeable when you're wearing boots and gloves this winter, right?"  
  
Ian gave her another death glare. "I can't even lift my arms."  
  
"All right," Fiona said, handing down her decision, "You get the new clothes this year. I think Lip’s done growing anyway."  
  
"What the fuck?" Lip said, "Karen already picked out all my stuff. I gotta pay her back."  
  
"Well, Karen's just going to have to return it all," Fiona snapped. She always was snippy about Lip and Karen for some reason.  
  
"No way," Lip said, "It's not my fault he's a walking glandular condition."  
  
"Runt," Ian coughed.  
  
"All right, all right," Fiona said and bit her lip in thought. "They’ll be giving you new camo pants--can you just wear those?"  
  
"I'm not supposed to wear my uniform when I’m not at ROTC."  
  
"They gonna give you dishonorable discharge if they catch you?" Lip asked, "Kick you out of the pretend Army?"  
  
"Maybe Kev has some old clothes?" Fiona offered.  
  
"Jesus, I'm not  _that_  big."  
  
"Now who's the runt?"  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
"Okay," Fiona said, picking up the small stack of bills she'd separated out for Lip's clothes. She split it into two smaller stacks and held one out to each of them.  
  
"Thirty bucks?" Lip asked, counting his share quickly.  
  
"Goodwill," Fiona replied with a falsely cheery smile, "That's practically a fortune!"  
  
"What?" Ian said sarcastically, "Lip might have to wear second-hand clothes?"  
  
"Yeah, good luck buying new with that thirty dollars, Andre," Lip muttered, deciding he was done with the whole operation and walking out.  
  
After Lip had gone, Fiona slipped Ian another ten dollars from Carl's pile. "You can take Lip's old clothes," she instructed Carl before he had a chance to protest, "With those and Ian's, you have plenty." Then she sighed as she returned her attention back to sorting the remnants of Carl's out-grown clothes and said, "You gotta stop eatin' your vegetables, Ian. We can't afford this."  
  
"Does that mean I don't have to eat vegetables either?" Carl asked eagerly.  
  
"Sure," Ian replied as he started wriggling painfully out of Lip's too-small clothes, "You can stunt your growth just like Lip."  
  
Debbie remembered being self-righteously angry about the whole thing. She hated when things weren't fair and it wasn't fair that Lip got half the money when it was Ian who needed the new clothes. She knew Fiona had only done it that way to keep the peace, but Debbie never liked it when people got rewarded for acting like assholes. It wasn't right. She'd complained about it later to Ian and been surprised when he just laughed and said he didn't care.  
  
"You worry too much, Debs," he'd said, "You can't fix everything."  
  
"But it's not fair," she argued.  
  
For a minute, she'd thought that Ian was going to give her the pat response of 'life's not fair,' but she was glad to find that he didn't. Instead, he gave Debbie what, looking back, was an especially Ian-ish response. He said, "I only have to wear hand-me-downs a couple more years 'til I get out of here. Lip's stuck being a short asshole for the rest of his life. It all evens out."  
  
Debbie keeps thinking about this memory now, lying in bed like tonight, or while walking back and forth to the Milkovich house, or while listening to Fiona and Lip getting into arguments all the time now that they're splitting the household responsibilities, playing mom and dad. It’s like a song Debbie can’t get out of her head and, more and more, it feels like it means something, like that one stupid memory might be the key to understanding how the whole family could fracture into pieces in less than six months.  
  
Fiona's always had a haphazard approach to everything, lurching from one drama to the next, and Lip, for all his intelligence, is a hot-head, just as likely to let a problem explode out of spite as to solve it. Ian had always been the pragmatic, calm center of the older kids. He had a temper, but it cooled off easily. He didn't put himself in charge of things, but he was there when you needed him. And, unlike Fiona and Lip, whose personal lives the whole family knew far more about than they wanted to, Ian kept his dramas to himself. In this way, Ian always maintained an illusion of being free from worry and problems. When things in the house got too crazy, Ian's presence was sort of soothing, balancing things out. The younger kids always found themselves gravitating to wherever Ian was when things got too crazy. Debbie never realized how important this was until it was gone. Ian had taken all that calmness with him when he left, and in his absence the household had descended into an every-man-for-himself kind of chaos.  
  
Debbie had high hopes when Ian came back that his presence would return everything to the way it was, but it quickly became clear that wasn't going to happen. Things had changed. And Ian had changed. He'd come back a different person, one who had a wardrobe of expensive new clothes and a leather jacket, one who didn't need to sleep and spent an excessive amount of time making his hair just right in the morning, one who laughed too much and made stupid jokes instead of giving honest answers when you asked him anything. He wasn't the stable center anymore who made everyone feel more calm. Instead he was a cartoon version of himself who kept saying strange things and whose nervous energy just made everyone feel uneasy. It was almost as bad as if he'd never come back to have this imposter sent in his place.  
  
Then he'd crashed and it had all made sense at last, even if it wasn't the kind of sense Debbie would have ever asked for. She knew that was how the world worked, at least for the Gallaghers. But that didn't stop her from being angry about it.

Maybe that was why she kept thinking about the stupid day with the argument over who got to buy new clothes; the unfairness of it made her fume self-righteously in the same way. Just as it wasn't fair that Ian got screwed that day because Lip was a selfish asshole, it isn't fair that Ian got screwed yet again because Frank and Monica were selfish assholes who thought nothing of having kids when they knew their genes were toxic. The unfairness of it all makes Debbie so angry that it's hard to sleep. She doesn't know that she believes now what Ian told her then, that it all evens out. There doesn't really seem to be any way for that to happen in this situation.

  
As much as she is angry on Ian's behalf, she's angry on her own behalf as well. It isn't fair that her brother was taken away from her. He was her favorite brother, too. He was the one who never told her he was too busy with his own shit to deal with her stupid problems, the one she could count on for help when Lip and Fiona were being dumb about stuff, the one who could reliably make her feel calm again just with his quiet presence, the only one of her siblings who actually looked related to her...  
  
Debbie rolls over, untangles the covers from around her body, and reaches for her phone. She sends a text to Matty:  
  
 _Can't sleep. Cheer me up._  
  
The phone is silent for so long that she assumes he must be asleep already. Then it lights up with Matty's reply:  
  
 _Wanna see a show at the Aragon tomorrow night?_  
  
It's not exactly the response she was hoping for, but it'll do. She's never been to a concert before and it'll be cool to tell people she's been to the Aragon, even if it means a long-ass train ride. She texts:  
  
 _Sure. Thanx._  
  
She sets the phone back on the nightstand and rearranges the covers, determined to clear her head and get some sleep. She's just closed her eyes when light flashes from the phone again. She smiles as she reads the message:  
  
 _P.S. You have really pretty hair._  
  
That's better. She burrows deep into her pillow and sighs, all thoughts of Ian replaced by thoughts of Matty. This doesn't make it any easier to sleep, but at least it's a much more pleasant way of being kept awake. The anger and frustration drains out of her, replaced by fluttery bird wing excitement in her chest, so good it's painful. Love hurts. Whether it’s love for your sibling who might never come back from whatever psychological hole he has crawled into, or love for your sort-of boyfriend who is equal parts frustrating and amazing…one way or another, it all hurts.

 

 

 


	2. Babysitting

Debbie and Carl walk side by side down the slushy sidewalk, making their daily pilgrimage. They've already dropped Liam off with Sheila and Sammi, said a perfunctory hello to Frank, and picked up more bread and peanut butter for tonight's dinner. The Aldi bag is thumping against Debbie's thigh as they navigate around piles of dog crap and the stained snow that could be spilled drinks or could be vomit or could be something even worse. There's more land mines along the sidewalk as they turn on to the Milkoviches' block which is an even worse block than the one the Gallaghers live on.

Mickey's already outside when they arrive and his face lights up when he sees them.  
  
"Hey, man," he calls out to Carl, "You bring it?"  
  
"Yeah," Carl replies, pulling the empty revolver out of his bag.  
  
Mickey gives it a quick once-over and nods approvingly. "Ain't bad. Come on, I'll show you how to load it and clean it." He starts to lead Carl around to the alley, then pauses and says to Debbie, "Ian's inside."  
  
"I know," she says and watches as they disappear around the back of the house. She knows that Fiona and Lip don't like how taken Carl's become with Mickey, but the two of them seem to genuinely enjoy hanging out together, talking about weaponry in the same way that Ian and Lip used to hang out and shoot the shit about sports with Kev. As usual, Debbie thinks, Fiona and Lip are being weird just because it's the Milkoviches. They're always weird and judgey when it comes to the Milkoviches.  
  
The front door isn't locked and Debbie lets herself in. She's surprised to find that Ian isn't in his usual spot on the couch. It's been several weeks that he's been staying here and ever since he went to the clinic to start getting on meds, he's spent most of his days in the Milkoviches' living room, waiting for his body and his brain to adjust to one medication after another. The pills give him headaches, make him nauseous, and leave him with any number of other nasty side effects depending on whether his doctors have decided to add another medication to the mix or fool around with his doses again. Ian's tried to make a joke of it, referring to himself as a lab rat and downplaying just how "off" he really feels, but Debbie can tell it's a Herculean effort for him these days just shuffling between the living room and the bathroom and the bedroom. So every day when she visits they mostly just sit together and stare at the TV.  
  
For the first week or two, Ian barely said anything at all, just sat slumped on the couch and gazed blankly at whatever flitted across the TV screen. She knew he appreciated her company, though, because sometimes he reached out and held her hand. More recently, though, he's been more talkative. Talkative by Ian standards, which isn't all that much, admittedly. Fiona used to tease him about that, saying that every conversation with Ian was like playing Twenty Questions. Until he came back from the Army and couldn't seem to  _stop_  chattering, which was funny...until it wasn't. But when Ian talks now, he sounds more like the Ian she remembers. Even if he's mostly just commenting about whatever shitty program they're watching, it's been a relief to hear his voice again. It helps Debbie feel like Ian's really still in there, buried as he is right now beneath a haze of medication and discomfort.  
  
Debbie stands there in the empty room, uncertain what she should do next. Maybe Ian's being sick in the bathroom again or, worse, maybe he's gone back to bed. He's been good about not spending whole days in there again since that really bad crash, but maybe he's decided to stop trying. Maybe he's back to where he was all those weeks back, not seeing any point to anything. That thought makes her stomach uneasy and Debbie decides to put off finding out by going to the kitchen first to drop off the bread and peanut butter.  
  
In the kitchen, however, she's relieved and shocked to find Ian sitting at the table, giving Yevgeny a bottle. "Hey, Debs," he greets her as if nothing is at all unusual.  
  
Debbie drops the Aldi bag on the counter and makes a beeline for the baby. She's seen him around a few times, usually being carried by Svetlana or one of her Russian friends, but those women intimidate Debbie so she's kept her distance. This is the first time she's been free enough to actually have a good look at the baby.  
  
"Oh, he's so sweet," she coos, running her index finger down his pink little arm, "Are you babysitting?"  
  
"Sort of," he says. "Carl come?"  
  
"With Mickey."  
  
Ian half smiles at this, silently making fun of both Carl and Mickey but not disapproving of their odd new friendship either. Carl's been a little uneasy around Ian since he got sick and Debbie suspects that Ian can tell. And that Mickey seems to be operating as a mutually accepted proxy between the two brothers.  
  
Ian and Debbie sit in companionable silence for a few minutes as Yevgeny finishes his bottle. Debbie tries to just watch the baby and not look around her. The Milkovich house is gross when she looks too closely, and it makes her sad to think of Ian here all the time instead of at home, in their cheery yellow kitchen or safe in his old bed with the sheets Fiona got him for Christmas when he was twelve. Debbie never felt like the Gallaghers had a nice house until she spent so much time at the Milkoviches' house.  
  
Then, without a word, Ian hands Yevgeny over to Debbie for burping. Debbie can't keep from grinning as she takes on his warm weight and thumps his back. How can anyone not like babies? "I can watch him sometimes, you know," she offers, "Then you and Mickey could go out, or whatever."  
  
"Like a date night?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Ian smiles and sips his beer. Debbie has brought up several times that Ian shouldn't be drinking alcohol with his medication, but every time she's been met with cool silence, so she doesn't even bother to say anything anymore. As she watches him, though, it occurs to her that he looks substantially better today than he has in a long time. As if he can hear what she's thinking, he offers up further evidence. "I went for a walk today," he says.  
  
"Really?" Debbie sounds far more excited than she means to, but this is good news. Just a couple days ago, Ian had muttered something about how he was turning into Batty Sheila and was probably never going to leave the house again.  
  
He shrugs. "Couple blocks. Not exactly running eight miles before breakfast these days."  
  
"You have to start somewhere," she says.  
  
He doesn't say anything in response to that, just takes Yevgeny back. He walks him around for a bit, then deposits him in his bassinet which stands in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room.  
  
"You see the TV's gone?" Ian asks as he returns to his chair and his beer.  
  
"No."  
  
"Yeah. Iggy took it. Mickey's having kittens."  
  
"He's not going to kill him, is he?" Debbie asks, concerned.  
  
"Not yet."  
  
Debbie's not quite sure if Ian's joking, so she decides to change the subject. "I brought dinner. Did you eat?"  
  
He shakes his head and Debbie gets to work making him a sandwich. Every single afternoon she makes him a sandwich. And sometimes he actually eats it. They both know the sandwich-making is more for Debbie than Ian anyway. Maybe it's all the years running the summer daycare, maybe it's too much babysitting or too much of Fiona's influence, but Debbie can't  _not_  look after everybody. She's pretty sure that if she ever left the Milkovich house without making sure there's a plate of food for Ian, her conscience would find a way to strangle her in her sleep.  
  
As Debbie starts laying out slices of bread in the familiar assembly-line style (she doesn't remember a time when she has ever needed to make just one sandwich), Mickey bursts in through the back door and grabs a beer from the fridge. He stands there, gulping it down while both Ian and Debbie turn to stare at him.  
  
"Tell me you didn't just leave Carl alone with a loaded weapon," Ian says.  
  
"Nah, man," Mickey scoffs, pulling a handful of bullets from his pocket, displaying them briefly, and then dumping them back, "He's gotta earn that privilege."  
  
Both Gallaghers breathe identical sighs of relief and Mickey takes another sip before continuing. "Respect for the gun," he announces, holding his beer bottle up in reverence to the notion, "That's what he's gotta learn."  
  
Debbie's lips can't help but curl into a little smile as she catches Ian rolling his eyes. Then she's startled as Mickey turns to her.  
  
"You make me one of those?" he asks.  
  
She nods as she spreads the peanut butter across three slices, hurriedly taking her eyes off him. Mickey still makes her a little nervous just because he seems so intense about everything. She's starting to realize, though, that that's just how Mickey talks; he only  _sounds_  angry. He's like the pitbull that used to live in the house four doors down from them: snarling and scary for strangers, but waggy and kissy if you know him and can get past being afraid of his teeth.  
  
Debbie's grown to like Mickey and is reminded of this once more as he gives Ian a playful little cuff and turns back to Debbie with an affectionate smile, as if seeking her approval. "Looking more like himself today, ain't he?" he says.  
  
"Yeah," Debbie agrees.  
  
"Went for a run even," Mickey adds, practically beaming as he takes a seat across from his boyfriend.  
  
"Walk," Ian corrects him.  
  
"Still better than my lazy ass did today."  
  
Debbie places the tops on all three sandwiches, slices them, and sets two of the plates down in front of Ian and Mickey. Then she opens the back door and hollers out, "Carl! Dinner!"  
  
"In a minute!" comes a faint reply from the alley.  
  
"You ain't eatin' with us?" Mickey asks as Debbie joins them at the table, taking the seat without a plate in front of it.  
  
"No. I'm having dinner later."  
  
"With Matty?" Ian asks around a mouthful of sandwich.  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"That the old guy?" Mickey asks and Debbie feels her cheeks go scarlet. If Mickey knows about Matty, that means he and Ian talk about her when she's not there. For some reason, it has never occurred to Debbie that this was a possibility. She feels suddenly self-conscious, even more so as Mickey notices her blushing.  
  
"What's with you Gallaghers and geriatrics?" he laughs.  
  
"He's twenty!" she protests.  
  
"And you're what--sixteen?"  
  
"Thirteen."  
  
Mickey's eyebrows are practically jumping off his head. "What the fuck's he want with you?"  
  
Debbie turns to Ian, looking to him to defend her, but he's sitting very still with his eyes closed. Without a word, he stands and makes his way quickly to the bathroom. She glances at Mickey, who's wearing a pained expression on his face as he watches him go. "Shit," he mutters.  
  
The three of them have an unspoken understanding that when Ian goes to puke, they let him alone--the only modicum of dignity they can really give him in that situation--so Debbie brings the conversation back to her and Matty. She's now determined that if Mickey knows about her relationship, he sure as hell isn't gonna judge her about it.  
  
"Ian dated an older guy," she says, considering this a masterstroke in the argument. She doesn't think Mickey could ever find fault with anything Ian does.  
  
She's surprised at the look that earns her. It's some strange combination of barely contained scorn and outrage. He sits back hard in his chair and cocks his head at her. "You think any of those old fuckers gave a shit about him?"  
  
Debbie is startled to hear that Ian had more than one "old" boyfriend. She's also surprised at the seething anger Mickey's projecting. It seems like more than just jealousy. "Well," she stammers, "If Ian was okay with being with them and he liked it too, what's wrong with that?"  
  
Mickey shakes his head dismissively. "Cause he's like you, all soft and needy and shit. Fuckin' assholes eat that up like it's a goddamned buffet."  
  
"I'm not needy!"  
  
Mickey almost laughs at her. "You two walk around like you're just begging everybody to love you, like you're fucking puppies looking for a home."  
  
Debbie scowls. "There's nothing wrong with wanting people to like you. It's called being nice."  
  
"It's called thinking it matters what other people feel about you. Thinking you don't count 'til somebody out there tells you you do."  
  
Mickey's expression seems to soften a little as he watches Debbie think about this. "Anyway," he says, "Those older guys, they get off on that power shit and use it to get what they want. They don't give a shit if they leave you messed up."  
  
"Ian didn't get messed up. He dated Dr. Lishman and he was fine."  
  
Mickey looks at her in disbelief. He leans forward and gestures toward the bathroom. "That kid in there thinks the only thing he's got to offer the world is his fucking body. He thinks that's all he's good for. And why does he think that? 'Cause those fuckers taught him that."  
  
They're both quiet for a minute. Mickey resumes eating his sandwich and Debbie gazes at Ian's abandoned plate and considers what Mickey's just told her. She thinks about all the dedication Ian put into perfecting his body the past couple years, and how he complains the most lately about not being able to run or work out and looking like crap. He was always strong and fitter than anyone else she knew, but it's strange to view that now as coming from a place of insecurity.  
  
"Yeah," Mickey says, "Blame your brother and sister too for that shit. Think they're so much better and smarter than the rest of you. No wonder you're so fucking needy."  
  
This is now more than Mickey's ever said to her maybe the whole time she's known him, but apparently he still hasn't said his piece yet. He seems to be fired up, as if he's been wanting to say these things for a while. Debbie's not surprised that his ire has turned to Lip and Fiona. For as much as they obviously dislike Mickey, the feeling is clearly mutual. Lip flat-out declared weeks ago that he wasn't going to see Ian anymore until he didn't have "Fucking Mickey Milkovich hovering around him like his bodyguard," and the couple times Fiona's been by, it always ends up with her and Mickey butting heads and arguing about what's best for Ian and which one of them has more right to decide.  
  
Mickey seems to take Debbie's lack of a response as a sign of her doubt. "You think he doesn't notice that they don't let you bring Liam by? You think that don't break his fucking heart? How many times Lip been by here? Once? Your sister? Twice, maybe? You think that don't make him feel like shit? Like he don't matter? Man, he never mattered to them. Where the fuck were they when those sick old bastards were molesting his fuckin' fifteen-year-old ass? Why they lettin' you get in the same situation? Huh? Fuckin' redheaded stepchildren is why."  
  
Debbie doesn't know what to say to this. As she's trying to process her thoughts, Mickey continues:

"Why the fuck was it me who had to drag his ass home from that crack house he was sleeping in? They too busy with their own problems? Your sister, she's his  _legal guardian_ , right? His fucking Ma in the eyes of the law? She likes to tell me that a lot, throw it around like it means something. If she's his Ma, why the fuck was she okay with an underage kid shaking his ass for dollars and getting used by every fucking faggot over the age of forty in the goddamn city? I don't think  _she_  ever shook her ass for cash. No? Coulda brought in a lot of money to support all those kids if she wanted to. But she's too good for that, right? But not the kid she's supposed to be taking care of? It's all right for him? Fuck that."

Mickey stomps his feet under the table for emphasis, "Fuck that redheaded stepchildren shit."  
  
Debbie just sits there, puzzled, as he finishes his tirade with an angry swig of his beer. Gallagher pride makes her want to defend Fiona, to defend Lip, but, seeing it from Mickey's point of view like this, she finds she doesn't totally disagree with him. Even before everything got messed up with Liam and Fiona going to jail, Debbie couldn't understand why Fiona and Lip weren't trying to find Ian. She kept asking if they should do a search for him like they used to do for Frank, but they kept brushing it off. For a while it felt like Carl and Debbie were the only ones who remembered Ian even existed. It still feels a little bit like that now. Maybe Mickey's right and it always was like that.  
  
But all Debbie can bring herself to say to this is, "What do you mean 'redheaded stepchildren'?"  
  
Mickey takes another sip of his beer, then tips the bottle in Debbie's direction and says, "You're not Frank's kid either, right?"  
  
Debbie furrows her brow. "What?"  
  
"You and Ian. You're both that other guy's kid, right? Frank's brother?"  
  
Debbie suddenly feels naked. Ever since finding out that Ian was Clayton's son and not Frank's, she's secretly wondered if Clayton was her father too. She and Ian look more like each other than they do any of their siblings, and they've always shared a similar temperament--as even Mickey's pointed out. She's never once breathed a word of this to anyone, though, not even Ian. "Did...did Ian say that?" she manages to ask.  
  
"Nah," Mickey shrugs, "Fuckin' obvious, though, right?"  
  
"I don't know," she admits.  
  
"It's like me and Mandy. Nothin' like the rest of them 'cause they got a different Ma."  
  
This is news to Debbie, but it makes sense. From what she's seen of the other Milkovich brothers, they don't look anything like Mickey and Mandy. And they seem a lot more dumb and lumbering. "And Molly too," she adds, making the connection that Terry's had kids with a lot of different women.  
  
Mickey makes a face at the mention of Molly and doesn't say anything about her, just takes a deep swig of beer.  
  
They're interrupted then as Carl trudges in and takes a seat. "Is Ian barfing?" he asks.  
  
Mickey and Debbie confirm this by not saying anything. "Can I have the rest of his sandwich?" Carl asks.  
  
"No," both Mickey and Debbie reply at the same time.  
  
Carl sighs and takes a bite of his own sandwich reluctantly.  
  
Ian emerges from the bathroom then. He pauses to peer into the bassinet and check that Yevgeny is still sleeping, then he returns to his seat at the table.  
  
"Can I have the rest of your sandwich?" Carl asks.  
  
"Take it," Ian says, scooting it off of his plate and on top of Carl's sandwich.  
  
"Thanks!"  
  
Ian turns to Debbie apologetically. "It's not your sandwich, it's just me."  
  
"I know."  
  
Mickey and Carl continue eating their sandwiches for a few minutes until Carl takes a breather and announces, "Mickey's a really good shot."  
  
"Be pretty sad if he wasn't," Ian replies.  
  
Mickey grins and points his thumb at Ian. "He shoots better than me. Fucking precision, man."  
  
Carl scoffs. "You're just saying that 'cause he's your boyfriend."  
  
Debbie catches Ian smiling at that, but Mickey is scoffing right back at Carl. "You think so?" Mickey asks him. Then Mickey turns to Ian. "You gonna let that stand?"  
  
All three of them look at Ian expectantly while he just looks back at Mickey. "I'm a better shot than Mickey," he says finally.  
  
"Prove it," Carl says and Debbie is a bit alarmed. She's not sure how wise it is to be challenging Ian right now, if it's just gonna upset him or make him close up and disappear into his head again, but to her surprise Ian smiles.  
  
"Okay," he says and stands up.  
  
There's a moment of hesitation before everyone else follows his lead. Before they head outside, Mickey unlocks what Carl's started referring to as "the arsenal cabinet" and removes a fresh human-shaped shooting target because of course the Milkoviches keep a personal supply of shooting targets. While Ian and Carl take the target out to the back alley, Debbie watches as Mickey carefully locks the cabinet and slips the key back into his pocket. She's pretty sure he only put a lock on that cabinet once Ian got sick--she heard Iggy complaining about it a couple weeks back--but she's pleased to note that Mickey seems to be the only person who has a key and that he keeps it on him at all times.  
  
With the cabinet secured, Debbie follows Mickey out to the alley where Ian and Carl have already set up the new target and taken a position several yards back from it.  
  
"You ready?" Mickey calls to Ian.  
  
"Need some bullets."  
  
"Right." Mickey accepts the revolver from Ian and loads the bullets from his pocket. As he hands the loaded gun back to Ian, Debbie tastes tinfoil panic in her mouth for a moment, but she swallows it down as Ian positions himself and focuses intently on the target.  
  
"Call it," Ian says.  
  
"Chest!" Carl calls.  
  
"Which part?" Ian asks.  
  
"Uh, heart."  
  
Ian shoots the target cleanly through the heart.  
  
"Left shoulder!" Mickey calls.  
  
The bullet pierces the target's left shoulder.  
  
"Brain!" Carl calls.  
  
Ian hits the target through the center of its temple.  
  
"Dick!" Carl shouts.  
  
Ian hits the center bottom of the target since the target ends at what would be a man's waist.  
  
"Eyes!" Debbie calls, unable to help herself.  
  
Ian fires off two shots in a row, bullet holes now staring back at them from the target's previously featureless face.  
  
"Badass," Carl murmurs approvingly.  
  
"Hold up," Mickey says. He goes over to a pile of rubbish, rummages around for a few seconds and produces an empty whiskey bottle. Giving Ian a sly smile, he chucks it into the air. Ian fires off a single shot and shatters the bottle midair. As they cover their heads to guard against the falling shards, Debbie and Carl cheer.  
  
Ian turns around with a bit of a swagger and hands the gun back to Mickey, who immediately empties the remaining bullets back into his pocket. Ian's beaming and Debbie sees a glimpse of his old confidence, still intact, just buried somewhere inside all this time. It's beautiful to see.  
  
"Can you teach me to shoot like that?" Carl asks.  
  
"Sure," Ian replies.  
  
"Yeah, another time, though," Mickey says, swooping in protectively but making it look casual as he slings an arm over Ian's shoulder and starts leading them all back to the house. "You did good, sharpshooter," Debbie hears him say softly to Ian.  
  
Back inside, Debbie and Carl start bundling up for the walk home. Before they leave, Ian catches them both in a hug and kisses the tops of their heads. It's been so long since he did that little gesture. He used to do it all the time. Debbie finds there are tears starting in her eyes when he lets them go.  
  
"Maybe I'll go see  _you_  guys tomorrow," he tells them.  
  
Debbie blinks back the tears to smile at him. "That'd be nice," she says, even though she knows it probably isn't likely.  
  
Debbie and Carl start to head for the door, but Ian reaches out and stops Carl by the shoulder. Ian puts out his hand for the gun that Carl's somehow managed to get a hold of under his coat.  
  
"It's not loaded," Carl says, "Mickey took the bullets."  
  
"Yeah, but it's not registered if cops or Social Services find it. You don't need anymore trouble in that house."  
  
Reluctantly, Carl passes the revolver to Ian. "We'll keep it here for you," Mickey says.  
  
Carl gives Mickey a nod of appreciation and adds, "This place is awesome. Our house sucks right now."  
  
Ian tilts his head and frowns. "You giving Fiona a hard time?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Good. Don't."  
  
"Bye, Ian!" Debbie says over her shoulder, hustling Carl out the door.  
  
"Stay away from perverts!" Mickey calls after her.  


* * *

That night at Matty's apartment, they're watching Monty Python and eating enchiladas when Debbie asks him, "Why do you like me?"

Matty is sipping his Mountain Dew and raises his eyebrows. "Huh?" he asks, tearing his eyes from the TV.  
  
"Why do you like me? It's not a hard question."  
  
"Uh, 'cause you're smart. And fun. And pretty."  
  
Debbie feels a warmth rising in her chest when he says this--Matty is so cute and she can't believe he actually finds her pretty--but Mickey's implanted an uneasiness that Debbie just can't shake. "You don't like me just for my body, right?" she asks.  
  
Matty blushes. "No. No, Debbie. I mean, I like your body. But I like everything else about you too."  
  
Debbie kisses Matty's cheek and scoots closer to him, satisfied. She is nothing like Ian after all. She's doing it right and she won't be messed up at all.

 

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	3. Family Dinner

Ian seems to have finally found the magic combination of drugs and dosage and has been on an upswing. He's started running again and tentatively going out into the world to do errands and attend group therapy. Debbie and Carl missed him a few times in a row at the Milkovich house, so their pilgrimages have become less frequent. Debbie hasn't been by to the house for several days, though she thinks Carl's still going by to hang out with Mickey. Debbie doesn't say it, but she thinks Mickey really has no place to say Matty's weird for hanging out with her when Mickey's best friend these days is a twelve-year-old boy. At least with Carl gone, Debbie's gotten a few opportunities to have the house to herself, something rare indeed. She's not complaining.  
  
So it's surprising on an early Friday evening when Debbie answers the door and finds Ian standing there on the steps.  
  
"Ian," she says stupidly.  
  
"Hey," he says with a too-bright smile. It's strange seeing him outside of the Milkovich house. He looks like he's been super-imposed onto Wallace Street.  
  
"Why didn't you just come in?" Debbie asks.  
  
A flash of embarrassment crosses his face. "I have no idea where my keys are."  
  
"Okay," Debbie shrugs and steps aside to let him in.  
  
"Where is everybody?" He asks as he pulls off his hat and coat and tosses them over the back of the couch. It's the first time in months that Debbie's seen Ian in something other than pajamas. His fancy new clothes are now too loose on him, and he's in desperate need of a haircut. He looks like he's in dress rehearsal for life outside the Milkovich house which, she guesses, he kind of still is.  
  
"Um, Carl has detention. Fiona's working a double. Lip might be coming by later."  
  
"Liam!" Ian sounds joyful as he spies the toddler standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Ian scoops his brother up and squeezes him tight before settling him onto his hip. Liam's too big now for Debbie to pick up, but he still fits in Ian's arms.  
  
"I want to make dinner," Ian announces as he carries Liam into the kitchen and begins examining the contents of the fridge. He's still balancing Liam on his hip, and Ian kisses him absently while moving things around in the fridge with his free hand. "Jesus," Ian says, "It's all take-out."  
  
"Fiona brings home a lot of stuff from work."  
  
Ian frowns and opens the freezer. After a moment, he pulls out a frostbitten box and declares, "We're having fish sticks and macaroni."  
  
"Great," Debbie says, "I'll put the water on."  
  
Debbie tells Ian a story about Fiona's new boss while they wait for the water to boil and complains about a group project for her biology class where none of her partners are doing any work. It feels normal again, Ian listening, adding a comment here and there. While he listens, he dotes on Liam, never once putting him down. Ian even takes him to potty and back and hoists him right back onto his hip afterwards. When Liam starts to squirm, Ian switches him to the other hip and gives him a baggie of animal crackers to placate him, appearing not to mind at all that his little brother's getting cookie crumbs all over Ian's nice sweater.  
  
Debbie's in the middle of telling Ian how Holly was caught in the boy's locker room shower after hours with a football player when Lip bursts in the front door, carrying a tray covered in tinfoil and calling out, "I brought Dinner!"  
  
He stops short as he finds himself face to face with Ian in the kitchen. "Oh," Lip says, "Hey."  
  
"Hey. Already making dinner."  
  
"Oh," Lip says again. Debbie can tell by the look in his eyes that he's silently recalculating the situation. "No problem," he says, "They can have this shit tomorrow. A day's not gonna make it any worse."  
  
Ian resumes stirring the pot of macaroni and Lip takes a few minutes to rearrange the fridge and make space for the tray of lasagna. When he finishes, he turns to Ian and holds out his arms. "I can take him," he says, referring to Liam.  
  
"We're fine," Ian replies, repositioning Liam slightly and keeping his eyes glued to the stove.  
  
Lip stands there awkwardly for a second, then nods and takes a seat at the counter beside Debbie. "Doing all right?" he asks her.  
  
Debbie shrugs. The air has gotten so heavy with tension and she's kind of annoyed with Lip for causing that to happen. Everything was feeling so nice and normal until he showed up.  
  
"How's that chemistry project going?" Lip asks.  
  
"It's biology," she corrects him, "It's fine."  
  
"Cool." Lip turns to Ian. "How you doing?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
"You home to stay?"  
  
Ian gives him a strange, tight smile that doesn't have any humor in it. "No," he says.  
  
Lip doesn't offer any response to that. Ian checks on the fish sticks in the oven and, as he straightens back up, notices that Lip's watching him nervously. "Getting a little close to the oven there," Lip says.  
  
"You seriously think I'm going to let Liam get burned?" Ian puts a hand over Liam's leg protectively, as if afraid Lip's going to snatch him away.  
  
"Apparently not."  
  
They reach a stalemate, Ian sullenly continuing to stir the macaroni, Lip watching him do so, and Debbie just wishing her brothers could stop being so stupid with each other. It's been almost two months since Lip's been by to see Ian and though Lip’s asked Debbie occasionally how Ian seems to be doing, Ian hasn't said a word about Lip. She hates what their relationship has devolved into, and she hates being stuck in the middle of it.  
  
Liam asks to be let down then and Ian obliges, lifting him over the counter to Lip so he's not setting him down directly in front of the hot stove. As he does this, Liam's foot rucks up the bottom of Ian's sweater, giving Debbie and Lip and clear view of Ian's bare torso. He is chalk white and bone thin.  
  
"Shit," Lip comments, taking Liam and setting him down, "Thought those drugs made everybody fat."  
  
Ian pulls his sweater back into place with annoyance. "Sure it'll happen eventually," he replies, "I’ve had every other side effect."  
  
"You wanna take that lasagna home with you?” Lip asks, “If you guys don't have enough foo--"  
  
"We're fine."  
  
Debbie hadn't been terribly hungry in the first place, but now her appetite's completely gone. Whether it's from the tension in the room or from seeing such tangible evidence of how badly this illness has ravaged her brother’s once-perfect body, she doesn't know.

"Ian's running again," she says, trying to steer the conversation (and her own mood) in a more cheerful direction.  
  
"Oh, yeah?" Lip asks too enthusiastically.  
  
Ian seems to be about to say something sarcastic, but then appears to think better of it. Instead he says, as if repeating something he's been told a few dozen times, "The drugs can only do so much. I have to do my part too." He clicks off the burner, transfers the pot, and puts on oven mitts in preparation for removing the fish sticks. "Sleeping and eating right, getting exercise, you know...all that stuff."  
  
"That's great, man," Lip says and sounds like he means it. He fetches a couple beers from the fridge as Debbie starts setting the table. They all take a few minutes to fill their plates, get Liam in his booster seat, and settle in at the table. The last thing Lip does before he sits down is open both beer bottles. "You know," he says, as he hands one of the bottles to Ian, "If one of us was gonna have to end up bipolar, it's probably a good thing it was you. You're the only person in this family who'd actually follow through on all those things you're supposed to do to manage it. Really couldn't have picked a better person."  
  
Ian raises an eyebrow as he takes a sip of beer. Then he swallows hard and asks, "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"  
  
Lip considers this. "More just a statement, really. An observation."  
  
"Mmm." Ian busies himself with cutting up Liam's fish sticks.  
  
Debbie passes Lip the bottle of tartar sauce and holds the ketchup out to Ian, pleased at least to be able to accommodate her brothers' respective fish stick condiment preferences. Maybe having their food the way they always like it will shut them up and distract them from what feels like an impending argument.  
  
Ian waves off Debbie's offer of the ketchup, though. "Nah, thanks," he explains, "I gotta watch my sugar."  
  
"Ketchup has sugar in it?" Debbie asks.  
  
"High fructose corn syrup," Lip clarifies, "The fuel of America's childhood obesity epidemic."  
  
"Oh."  
  
As they settle into a tense, silent meal, Debbie texts Matty under the table with one hand while she pushes the macaroni around her plate with the other.  
  
 _Wish you didn't have to work tonight._  
  
 _On break. Want me to call?_  
  
 _No. Ian's here._  
  
 _That's good, right?_  
  
 _Yeh but Lip's here too._  
  
 _Awkward?_  
  
 _Totally._  
  
"What do they got you on now, anyway?" Lip asks, breaking the silence. Debbie looks up in alarm to see how Ian's going to respond. There’s been an unspoken rule amongst the Gallaghers that they’re not supposed to talk to Ian about any of this stuff. They do all the talking about it behind his back.  
  
Ian doesn't respond at first. Instead he sets down his fork and takes a long sip of beer. "I don't know," he says finally, turning to smile at Liam and scooting Liam's bowl a little closer to him so he can get less macaroni on the table and more in his mouth, "I just take whatever they tell me to."  
  
"Well, I'd like to know so I can do some research."  
  
"Why?" Ian turns back to Lip and the smile he'd had for Liam a second ago is nowhere to be found, "So you can tell me all the things my doctors are doing wrong? 'Cause you're an expert on everything, right?"  
  
"I hardly think you're getting cutting edge care at the free clinic. Pretty sure most those jackasses printed off their medical licenses from the internet."  
  
"Why does it matter?" Ian asks quietly.  
  
"'Cause you're my fucking brother."  
  
Ian rolls his eyes.  
  
"Listen," Lip says, leaning forward, "Will you at least come see someone at my school? You have to put up with a bunch of Pakistani med students following the docs around, but the actual doctors know their stuff. You could say you're me and give them my student ID number. You got lots of experience doing that, right?"  
  
Ian finishes off his beer in one last go and heads to the fridge for another.  
  
"You supposed to be drinking so much with your meds?" Lip asks as Ian opens the bottle, "Those geniuses at the free clinic give you the all-okay on that?"  
  
"Lip, stop," Debbie begs, even though she knows he's not going to listen to her. When Lip gets into self-righteous debate mode, he never stops, and he's been building up to this one for months.  
  
Ian leans his back against the fridge and takes a long drink. He doesn't look at any of them, his gaze fixed somewhere on the wall behind them. "Leave it alone, all right?" he says, still not making eye contact, "I'm doing fine without your help."  
  
Debbie can tell by the set of Ian's jaw that he's about thirty seconds from walking out. Lip either doesn't pick up on this or doesn't care. "Oh, you're doing fine, huh?" he asks, "Living like an invalid in that house of horrors? What've you even been doing for the past two months?"  
  
"Pissing blood, vomiting, feeling like my skull is splitting open, and dreaming while I'm wide awake."  
  
"Shit," Lip says, obviously not expecting such a response. "Listen, man, I didn't--"  
  
"Can we stop talking about this?" Ian turns his eyes back to Lip and there's defiance in his glare but also exhaustion.  
  
"Yeah," Lip says, his tone sheepish, "Yeah, sure. Let's talk about something else."  
  
Ian returns to the table and takes Liam into his lap. Liam helps himself to Ian's fish sticks and Ian seems amused by this. He looks up at Lip and asks, "So, how's college?"  
  
Lip watches him for a second before he realizes that Ian's said anything, then he stumbles to respond. "Oh, good. Good. It's...you know, it's not as easy as it looks, but I think...I think I should shake out all right with my final grades."  
  
"Oh, big surprise," Debbie mutters, annoyed at Lip's false modesty. Her grades are just as good as Lip’s ever were, but nobody ever cares about that. Probably because she doesn’t put on a whole dumb act about how getting good grades is a struggle when it’s totally not.  
  
Lip ignores her. "And how bout you? You gone down to school yet to see about starting back in the fall?"  
  
"Nah."  
  
"Why the hell not?"  
  
Ian shrugs. "What's the point?"  
  
"The point is you get your diploma so you're not a loser drop-out and then you use it to fucking better your fucking situation."  
  
Ian burrows his face into Liam's curls and closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of baby shampoo.  
  
"Jesus,” Lip says, “if you're too much of an idiot to do it for yourself, at least think about Debbie and Carl. What kinda example you setting for them?"  
  
"They have you," Ian replies, turning his face so that his cheek is still resting against Liam's head, eyes still closed, "You're the star. I'm just their mentally defective brother. What difference does it make to them if I get a diploma? Not like it's going to give me a future where I don’t end up dead or in the loony bin."  
  
"Jesus fuck, Ian, don't say--"  
  
"No, fuck you, Lip," Ian says, climbing to his feet and holding Liam tight against him like a teddy bear that’s going to protect him from monsters, "Sorry I disturbed your perfect life coming here tonight. Sorry I reminded you I exist."  
  
"Don't be so dra--"  
  
They're interrupted then as Fiona lets herself in through the back door, carrying a stack of Styrofoam containers and calling out, "I brought dinner!"  
  
"Fuck, did you get fired?" Lip asks her.  
  
"No," Fiona says, setting the containers down on the table, "Gas leak. Sent us all home early." Then she notices Ian, puts her hands on her hips and smiles, "Hey, stranger! What are you doin' here?"  
  
"Leaving," Ian says, beating a retreat toward the front door. Fiona, Lip, and Debbie all rush to follow him.  
  
"You kidnapping Liam?" Fiona asks him in a teasing tone.  
  
"What?" Ian asks, and seems to only then realize that he's still carrying his brother. He gives him a quick kiss then hands him over to Debbie who wants desperately to tell Ian not to go but can't seem to find her voice, so disheartened is she at the turn this night has taken.  
  
Ian grabs his coat and hat from the couch and yanks them on.  
  
"Ian, don't go," Fiona says.  
  
He just shakes his head. "Where's Carl? Huh?"  
  
"He's got detention." Fiona and Lip reply simultaneously.  
  
Ian gives them a bitter smile. "At seven o'clock at night?"  
  
They look back at him, dumbfounded.

“Yeah,” Ian says, “Great job guys.” Then he lets himself out, slamming the door behind him.  
  
Debbie plops Liam onto the floor and then shoves Lip hard. "What is  _wrong_  with you?"  
  
Lip ignores Debbie and says to Fiona, "You just okay with him never going back to school?"  
  
A look of guilt passes over Fiona's face, but she just shrugs. "He's eighteen in two weeks. I can't force him to do anything." Then she sighs and says, "Will you call Carl and figure out where the hell he is? He won't answer if it's me calling."  
  
"Sure, okay," Lip says and takes out his phone.  
  
"Aren't you guys going to go after him?" Debbie asks, unable to believe that they're just letting Ian leave like this.  
  
"He's a big boy," Lip says, dialing Carl and waiting for him to pick up, "He'll come back when he wants to."  
  
Disgusted with them both, Debbie stomps into the vestibule and begins searching for her coat and hat among the pile on the hooks, intending to go after Ian herself. She pauses, though, as she hears Mickey's voice from outside. He must have run into Ian just in front of the house.  
  
"There you are!" Mickey says, "I've been looking all--the fuck happened?"  
  
Ian says something but Debbie can't make out what it is.  
  
"Let me talk to him," Mickey says, his anger clear, "I'll fucking kill him."  
  
"No," Ian says firmly, "Forget it. I just wanna go home, Mick. Let's go home."  
  
Then she hears the sound of their boots crunching through the snow on the walkway and fading as they move away from the Gallagher house.  
  
Something about hearing him say that, about hearing that this isn't what Ian thinks of as his home anymore, makes Debbie's breath catch in her throat. She slumps against the wall, defeated. He's never coming back.

You can follow me on tumblr: [Zebra Wallpaper ](http://zebrawallpaper.tumblr.com/)


	4. Funfetti

Birthdays have never really been a big deal in the Gallagher household. You might get some say in that night’s dinner and usually some small, practical gift (socks, almost always socks), but they’ve rarely celebrated with a full-on party since it’s an expensive precedent to set. In the cases where it’s happened, it’s generally been pretty spontaneous, such as when Carl found fifty bucks under a seat on the bus the day before Debbie’s birthday and another time when Monica was on one of her manic swings and decided that Fiona needed a sweet sixteen party even though it was a month after her actual birthday. Or that time when Fiona happened into some coke on her birthday, though no one likes to remember that party.

 

So when Ian turns eighteen on a Wednesday, it’s not unusual that the Gallaghers haven’t planned any formal celebration. What’s surprising is that Mickey has. Originally, he’d wanted to just invite folks over to the house, but when he mentioned it at work, Kev hadn’t hesitated to volunteer the Alibi Room and donate a keg. Then when Debbie mentioned to Sheila that, since the party was no longer happening at the Milkovich house, Liam could come and Sheila wouldn’t need to babysit him, Sheila had insisted on making the food. Debbie suspected Ian was going to be a little weirded out by the presence of Sheila at his birthday celebration, but she didn’t say anything because Debbie also suspected that Mickey’s plans for party food started and ended at opening up a couple jumbo-sized bags of chips and whatever Sheila made _had_ to be better than that.

 

Debbie volunteered to make a cake and Carl asked to be in charge of decorations. Mickey offered him some money to cover it, but Carl turned it down. Then he shoplifted a “fuckton of balloons and shit” from the dollar store. At first Debbie thought Carl had only volunteered for this duty so he could get revenge at the dollar store manager who’d kicked him out for suspected shoplifting last summer, and she was still pretty certain that was part of it, but Carl made sure to get everything in Ian’s favorite colors (green and orange), so it also felt like maybe a genuine gesture.

 

This is not to say that Fiona and Lip were overlooking Ian’s birthday, even if they did keep a safe distance from Mickey’s party plans, lest they be accused of interfering. They spearheaded a family drive to buy Ian a really nice present this year—new running shoes—with Fiona picking up every spare shift she could get to chip in the bulk of the cost. As she explained, “It’s a goddamned accomplishment, getting through the year that kid’s had.”

 

The extra shifts mean that Fiona is going to miss most of the party, and Lip has an exam in his class tonight, so he isn’t sure he’s going to make it at all. Debbie thinks maybe this is for the best since things have been so rocky between Ian and Lip. She just wants, more than anything, for this to be a night free of drama. With the way they’re treading so carefully around the subject, Fiona and Lip seem to feel the same way.

 

As Debbie stands in the kitchen, spreading the frosting over the top of Ian’s cake, Carl’s at the table, digging through a box of last summer’s fireworks he’s produced from God knows where, looking for sparklers. He’s insistent that Ian’s cake must have sparklers instead of plain old crappy candles.

 

“Is your boyfriend coming tonight?” Carl asks, setting aside a handful of cherry bombs.

 

“He’s not my boyfriend for twenty-eight more months,” Debbie replies automatically, adding another blob of frosting and spreading it smooth, “but he has to work tonight.”

 

“Sucks. I might bring my girl.”

 

Debbie sets down the knife in outrage. “You have _another_ girlfriend? Where do you keep finding them?”

 

“Word gets around when you’re a pimp.”

 

“You’re not having sex yet, are you?” Debbie demands to know. If he is, the world is truly, truly unfair.

 

“Depends on what you mean by sex,” Carl replies smoothly.

 

“What do you mean ‘what I mean’? Sex is sex.”

 

“I dunno. Whatever.”

 

Debbie scowls and returns to frosting the cake. Carl’s clearly full of shit and trying to cover it up. He’s not having anything close to sex.

 

“So, are you in love with your not-boyfriend?” Carl asks after a minute.

 

“I don’t know,” Debbie replies, “I think so.”

 

“If you’re gonna wait around two and half years to get your cherry popped, you should know if you’re actually in love with him.”

 

Debbie doesn’t disagree with this sentiment. It’s been on her mind a lot lately. Not that she isn’t crazy about Matty, but she doesn’t know if she wants to wait a million years for any action at all if she doesn’t love him and really just likes him a lot. It’s so confusing. Normally, she’d ask Mandy for advice, but Mandy skipped town right after Ian first got sick and hasn’t been back. And she could never ask Fiona about any of this because Fiona can’t think of her sister as anything but a little kid. And she can’t ask Vee because Vee would tell Fiona everything. And Debbie’s starting to suspect that Holly doesn’t know shit about anything, so she’s stopped asking her advice.

 

“Do you think Lip could help me figure it out if I asked him?” she asks.

 

Carl examines a fistful of bottle rockets then sets them aside. “Lip’s love life is a shitshow. He doesn’t know crap.”

 

This is a good point. Debbie scrapes the last of the frosting from the bottom of the can and says, “Maybe I could talk to Sammi?”

 

“Oh, finally!” Carl cheers as he locates a slim package of sparklers at the very bottom of the box, “Sweet!”

 

Debbie figures the conversation is over, but as Carl heads out of the room with his prize, he says, “Why don’t you ask Ian? He and Mickey are totally, like, gay married.”

 

Debbie frowns over the cake. Why hasn’t she thought of this?

 

* * *

 

Debbie, Carl, and Liam show up early to the Alibi Room to help set up. They hang the streamers that Carl shoplifted, as well as a banner that says ‘Over the Hill.’ Debbie doesn’t think that’s quite right for an eighteenth birthday, but she lets it go because Carl is so pleased with it. Then they start the work of blowing up the fuckton of balloons, though Debbie does most of the actual balloon blowing while Carl mainly uses them to make fart noises to amuse Liam.

 

A little before six, Sheila shows up with enough food to feed the entire neighborhood. For some reason, she’s chosen a vaguely Mexican/South American theme, setting out trays and trays of taquitos, ceviche, fried plantains, and guacamole. Then the whores close up shop, turn on the dance music, and start helping themselves to the spread while Sheila looks on with an uneasy, polite smile. And at six, Mickey arrives with Ian and Yvegeny in tow.

 

Ian looks a bit bashful as he enters the bar. He’s dressed up slightly for the occasion, wearing his leather jacket, and Debbie notices that his hair has very recently been cut. Mickey’s swaggered in with his usual bombast, swinging Yvegeny’s baby carrier as he hollers out, “Birthday boy has arrived!”

 

Ian’s following with his head bowed slightly and a pink flush on his ears. Then his uneasiness disappears as he spots his siblings. Carl catches him in a big hug and Ian holds out an arm to pull Debbie into it as well. The middle Gallagher kids stand there for a long moment, just one mass of affection and relief. So much has happened since Ian’s last birthday and right now it feels like they can erase it.

 

As they release each other, Liam runs up and Ian catches him under the arms. Ian swings the hysterically giggling toddler through the air and then sets him onto his shoulders, keeping a firm grip around each of Liam’s ankles. Ian puts his head back to look up at his youngest brother and Liam informs him, “It’s my birthday!”

 

Ian laughs in a way he hasn’t for months. “Well, Happy Birthday!” Ian cheers.

  
The party gets going after that. It’s mainly just the girls from the rub and tug and a few folks Debbie doesn’t know, though a couple of Mickey’s brothers show up at some point and a lot of the bar regulars are there since they haven’t bothered to close the place for such a small event. Kermit keeps asking Mickey and Ian if “You kids gettin’ married?” and congratulating them, and it’s not clear if this is supposed to be a joke or is just drunken confusion, but, other than that, everyone seems to be having a nice, low-key time.

 

Sheila obviously feels out of place and spends a lot of the party micromanaging the food (“No, see there’s already avocado _in_ the ceviche. You don’t have to put guacamole on top of it. Unless you like that…”). Then, to Debbie’s great amusement, Mickey compliments Sheila on the taquitos (“Whatever the fuck’s in these tube things is _good_!”) and Sheila takes the opportunity to start explaining the entire recipe and cooking process to him. Mickey looks like a deer in the headlights and just shovels bean dip into his mouth while Sheila babbles at him.

 

Carl sits with Joey and Iggy, seeming to have found some like-minded compatriots, and Debbie finds herself getting into a long, surprisingly normal conversation with Svetlana about Yvegeny’s teething. None of these ‘scary’ Milkoviches are so bad at all, really, once you actually talk to them.

 

Ian circulates for a while with Liam still on his shoulders, then fixes plates for both of them and takes a seat at the table where Debbie’s now playing with Yvegeny. “Thanks for coming,” Ian says as he cuts up Liam’s food, “Means a lot to Mickey.”

 

Debbie came to the party for Ian, of course, not Mickey, but if making Mickey happy makes Ian happy, she’s fine with letting him think that’s why she’s here. She watches Ian watch Mickey, who’s still trapped with Sheila, and Debbie can’t help but take in the expression of pure affection on Ian’s face. Ian loves Mickey; there’s no doubt of that. Debbie wonders if she’s ever going to have someone who looks at her like that.

 

“Are you gonna rescue him?” Debbie asks, noting that Mickey still looks incredibly uncomfortable with Sheila talking at him like…well, like a neighbor. Or like someone who gives a fuck about what Rick Bayless says about ceviche.

 

“Nope,” Ian says so casually that it makes Debbie laugh.

 

Kev shows up to relieve Kate behind the bar then and he’s got Veronica on his arm. Vee does a little dance as she makes a bee-line for the keg and Kev makes his way over to greet the guest of honor. Ian stands up and accepts a one-armed hug from Kev.

 

“Hey, thank for letting us have the party here,” Ian says.

 

“No problem, man,” Kev replies, “We miss seeing you around.”

 

Debbie suspects that Kev is referring to not seeing Ian around on Wallace Street, but Ian seems to take him to mean the Alibi Room. “Yeah,” Ian says as he inclines his head toward the glass of beer he’s been nursing for an hour, “Can’t really drink too much anymore.”

 

Kev looks mildly offended. “We serve pop too.”

 

“Ah…”

 

“Come on, man. You wanna come in with Mickey sometimes and get a pop, it’s on the house. We’ll put it on Frank’s tab.”

 

Ian laughs at this. Then he asks, “Hey, where’s the girls?”

 

“Grandma’s babysitting.” Kev glances over at Veronica, who’s got a taquito in one hand and a beer in the other and laughing at something one of the whores said. “Gonna have to take Vee home in a wheelbarrow tonight.” Then Kev raps on the table with his knuckles, “Okay. Gotta go let Kate off the hook. You look good, kid.”

 

Ian laughs again as Kevin heads over to the bar. “You do look good,” Debbie says. She means it too. Ian looks so much better than he did even a week ago.

 

“Thanks,” he says, smiling, “So do you.”

 

Debbie rolls her eyes. “I’m thinking about cutting my hair short.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I don’t know,” she says. She’s been hungering for some kind of drastic change lately. “I’m tired of looking the same. Maybe I’ll dye it.”

 

“Ah, don’t do that, Debs.”

 

“Why not? It’s _my_ hair.”

 

“Yeah, but it’s nice the way it is. Besides, Carl looks like Lip, and Fiona and Liam have the same eyes…I always liked that you looked like me.” He tousles the end of Debbie’s ponytail. “You’re my Mini Me.”

 

Debbie smiles at this and almost asks him then about Clayton, about what Mickey said about it being obvious that Ian and Debbie have a different dad than the rest of them, about the question Debbie’s been pondering for years, but she doesn’t. She just wants to continue having a nice time, celebrating with her brother, who feels tonight so much more like the brother she remembered than the half-stranger who’s been sitting in his place for all these months. She’s missed him so much.

 

Mickey finally extricates himself from Sheila’s lecture on “authentic co-me-dah” and saunters over to Ian. “You holdin’ up all right?”

 

Ian smiles. “ _You_ holdin’ up all right?”

 

“Christ that bitch is batty,” Mickey says, shaking his head, “Food’s all right, though.” Then he fixes Ian with a solemn look, “I’m serious, man. You doin’ okay? All these people and everything?”

 

“Yeah,” Ian assures him, “It’s great.”

 

Mickey smiles at this and Debbie notices that when Mickey Milkovich smiles one of those rare, genuinely delighted smiles, it lights up his whole face. He’s actually sort of cute.

 

Ian looks over to where Veronica and the girls have moved some of the tables out of the way and are currently getting down to a Rihanna jam, grinding on each other and laughing themselves silly. “Dance with me?” he asks Mickey.

 

“Yeah, fuck you, Gallagher,” Mickey snorts.

 

Ian smiles shyly, as if he wasn’t really asking and it was all a joke. But then Mickey dives in for a surprise kiss and it’s startling, for one, because Debbie’s never seen them kiss before and, for two, because it’s quite a passionate kiss.

 

“Happy Birthday, Asshole,” Mickey says as he finally breaks away and runs the back of his hand over his mouth.

 

“Get a room,” Carl mutters as he passes by on his way to refill his plate.

 

Ian just grins and Mickey gives him a satisfied smirk before heading back to the bar.

 

“When did you know you loved Mickey?” Debbie blurts out.

 

Ian tears his eyes reluctantly from watching his boyfriend cross the room and seems to take a moment to consider how to answer. “Probably the second or third time we fucked,” he replies honestly.

 

“How did you know?” Debbie asks, leaning in closer across the table.

 

“Dunno,” Ian shrugs, “Just felt different.”

 

“So, you knew for sure right away that you loved him?”

 

He takes a sip of his beer and nods. “Yeah.”

 

Debbie frowns. This doesn’t bode well for her uncertainty with Matty. “Well, were you ever in love with anybody else before him?”

 

“Thought I was,” Ian flicks his eyes toward Mickey then back to Debbie, “Now I know I wasn’t.”

 

"Did you love Jimmy's dad?"

  
  
Ian doesn't hesitate as he responds, "No."

  
  
"Then why were you with him?"

  
  
He tilts his head slightly, as if weighing whether to answer honestly again. "The sex was good," he says.

  
  
"Oh."

  
  
"But mostly I liked it because he bought me stuff and took me to nice hotels. It was fun."

 

“I’ve never been to a hotel,” Debbie says without really thinking about it. She’s feeling so deflated. She’s probably never going to have with Matty what Ian has with Mickey. She’ll probably never have it with anyone ever. And she’s probably going to die a virgin, having spent her entire life babysitting the hoard of illegitimate children her siblings are no doubt going to produce. Life is so not fair.

 

“Come on,” Ian says, standing up, “Dance with me.”

 

Debbie groans but gives in because she knows Ian secretly really enjoys dancing. He and Mandy used to get stoned and have impromptu dance parties in the boys’ room. Sometimes Mandy would pull Debbie in to join them and teach her moves while Ian goofy-danced around them. He was always kind of shitty at dancing, though he could pull off some moves with such conviction that it made everybody laugh. Now Debbie giggles as Ian throws in some of the ‘sexy’ moves he must have learned while working at the club, and she marvels that anybody ever paid this idiot to dance.

 

Vee joins in, then some of the whores, and then Carl, who does a head-bang-y dance Ian once taught him because Carl is even less skilled at dancing than his brother. They’re all dancing and laughing and even Mickey passes by and does about four facetious little beats while holding his beer glass and grinning slyly. Ian dances up to him (Debbie’s brother is _such_ a dork) and gives him a long, deep kiss until Vee slaps Ian behind the head and says, “Stop making all of us jealous.” Ian laughs and dances back to his siblings while Mickey returns to his comfort zone on the bar stool. Ian takes up Debbie’s hands and leads her into some silly, pseudo-waltz. Sheila’s dancing crouched down with Liam, doing a variation on the hustle, bumping hips every other beat. Carl has gotten Kermit and Iggy to head bang with him. Debbie can’t remember the last time she hurt this much from laughing.

 

Then Ian stops dancing suddenly and darts away from the group to hug someone in a tight greeting. Debbie realizes that it’s Lip, just arrived. She dances a few more beats, watching as Ian leads Lip over to the keg and fills a glass for him. She notices that Lip puts his arm over Ian’s shoulders and there no longer appears to be any tension at all between the brothers. Could it possibly be that easy a fix?

 

At that moment, Debbie decides she doesn’t care. She decides not to have a care about anything in the world. She forgets about Ian and Lip, forgets about Fiona, and Frank, and Monica, and Clayton and Matty and even Mandy, wherever the hell she is. She forgets about Holly and Ellie and all the assholes at school. She forgets everything and keeps on dancing, swinging her red hair proudly.

 

* * *

 

Gallagher’s love a party, even one that’s thrown by a Milkovich, apparently. Lip and Ian end up talking for almost an hour, interrupted only when Mickey butts in to make sure Ian is switching from beer to pop. From what Debbie can tell every time she looks their way, the two brothers are mostly just joking around, chatting as if nothing was ever amiss between them. It’s mostly Lip doing the talking, which is how it always was with them, but Ian appears to be enjoying whatever it is Lip has to say. When Debbie passes by them on her way to use the bathroom Lip’s telling some story about Amanda and their Resident Advisor, and Ian’s grinning like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

 

And then Fiona shows up and Ian greets her just as warmly as he did Lip. He and Fiona hit the dance floor almost immediately, Fiona appearing to be as amused by Ian’s new dance moves as Debbie was. Mickey intercedes at some point, reminding Ian that he needs to get to bed at the regular hour, and the party has to wind down soon. So they get to the cake and the big present, both of which are hits. Ian appears quite moved as he delicately takes the shoes from the box and turns them over to admire their soles.

 

“This is too much, guys,” he says, “these are so expensive.”

 

“Ah,” Fiona brushes off his concern, “We got them on sale.”

 

“Still…”

 

“Nonsense,” Fiona pulls Ian close and kisses the side of his head, “Just say ‘thank you,’ stupid. And promise us you’ll get a lot of use out of them.”

 

“I will,” Ian smiles, “Thanks, guys. Really.”

 

“So, what’s next?” Lip asks, and for once it doesn’t sound like he’s challenging Ian or poking at him or trying to get a rise out of him. It seems like the kind of question you ask someone when he turns eighteen.

 

Ian takes a second to fit the shoes back into their packaging in the box and then says, “Going back to work.”

 

“In Boystown?” Lip manages to ask without sounding too judgmental.

 

“No, no,” Ian says, “Not looking like this.”

 

“Not a healthy environment anyway,” Mickey mutters and Debbie wonders if Mickey’s been attending therapy sessions with Ian because that doesn’t sound like a phrase Mickey would have used on his own even though she knows he’s spoken pretty harshly about Ian working at the club before. She also notes that Mickey’s a couple sheets to the wind.

 

“I’ve got some other work lined up,” Ian says, “Mickey knows a guy.”

 

“Is it legal?” Lip asks.

 

Ian gives a nervous laugh, “Yeah.”

 

“Then what is it?” Fiona asks, doing that hesitant smile thing she does with Ian these days, as if terrified about whatever he’s going to say next.

 

“Custodial work,” Ian says quietly, taking a quick sip of his pop.

 

“What—like a janitor?” Lip asks.

 

“Yeah,” Ian looks at him steadily, his voice almost defiantly even now, “Exactly like a janitor. It pays okay, and if everything goes all right, in three months I’ll be able to join the union. Then I get benefits, sick days, which I’m probably gonna need, a pension…all that stuff.”

 

“Health insurance,” Fiona says almost to herself.

 

“Yeah,” Ian says.

 

They all sit there in an awkward moment of quiet, processing this new information. Debbie’s pretty sure they’re all thinking the same thing she is. Ian was more ambitious and harder working than anyone any of them has ever known. Ian was smart and funny and thoughtful and strong. Ian was supposed to get out of this shithole and lead armies into battle. Now Ian’s talking about pushing a mop and cleaning toilets for forty years until it’s time to collect his pension. Debbie’s not certain whether the whole thing makes her more depressed or pissed off.

 

"A Gallagher with a good union job?" Fiona says cheerfully, "I'd kill for that."

 

Even Lip’s smiling encouragingly now, clapping Ian on the shoulder. “That’s good news, man,” he says.

 

And Debbie hates them in this moment. She hates that they think this is okay. She hates that their faith in Ian’s potential has fallen so far that they can look at this as a positive future for him. Ian wasn’t supposed to be a fucking janitor. Ian was supposed to be a hero.

 

“So, where you working at?” Fiona asks, as if it makes any difference at all.

 

“Uh, a school,” Ian replies and Debbie’s sharp eyes pick up on the fact that he’s starting to blush a little, getting led into revealing something he’s embarrassed about. Debbie quickly prays to god in her head that Ian isn’t about to tell them that he’s returning to their high school. Oh, god, please no…

 

“CPS?” Fiona asks.

 

“No, actually,” Ian says and puts on a brave, false smile, “Chicago Poly Tech.”  
  
There's another awkward pause and Debbie pictures Ian in a janitor’s uniform, cleaning up students' trash while Lip stands by with his rich college friends and pretends not to know him. Her eyes start prickling with tears at this image. It's so unfair. It’s so goddamned horribly unfair…  
  
But Lip gives a big smile at this information. "That's great," he says, "I'll get to see you a lot more. If you come to the cafeteria, lunch is on me."

 

Ian looks relieved to have this news received so well. Debbie can’t take it, though. She slips down off her barstool and heads to the washroom. Inside she just stands there and glares into the sink. She can’t stand to be around any of them right now. She folds her arms and digs her fingers into her flesh, not caring that it hurts. She’s so angry she wants to scream. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Why does Ian, of all of them, sweet, kind Ian, have to get screwed? And why the hell do they all act like that’s okay?

 

Debbie stays there, staring into the filthy drain, until she realizes that her arms are aching and she’s left deep red marks on them. She takes a deep breath, takes a moment to fix her hair, and returns to the party.

 

Ian and Carl are crouched down and dancing with Liam. Mickey’s talking to Kev and Lip at the bar. Fiona’s sipping on a cocktail next to the remnants of Ian’s cake. A lot of people have dispersed. Sheila and the Milkovich brothers have left. The whores have gone back upstairs to work. Svetlana’s packed up Yevgeny and taken him home. The party is definitely on the wane.

 

Debbie slumps down on the barstool next to Fiona and says, “How can you just be okay with this?”

 

“With what?” Fiona asks but then realizes what Debbie’s referring to. “It’s a good job, Debs. It’s honest work.”

 

“I know,” Debbie whines sadly, “But it’s _Ian_.”

 

Fiona’s expression softens. “It’s not a dream come true, but he’s taking care of himself. And that’s good. He’s setting up stuff he’s gonna need. He’s being proactive, just like he always was.”

 

“But he’s fine now.”

 

Fiona puts her hand on top of Debbie’s. “You know he won’t always be. He’s gonna have some bad periods. It’s good he’s thinking about this stuff. Benefits like that? It can make a real difference in him staying healthy. And safe.”

 

Fiona takes a sip of her cocktail and for a second she looks scared. “I’d rather know that my brother’s safe and sound sprinkling sawdust on vomit forty hours a week than know he’s out in the world someplace doing god knows what just to buy some meth or coke or whatever his brain tells him he needs and never seeing a real doctor. Let’s be happy for Ian. Okay?”

 

Debbie feels like she’s going to cry, but she swallows it. “But he’s never gonna get out now.”

 

Fiona smiles. “We don’t know that. Maybe this is just for now. And, you know, so what if he doesn’t get out? Maybe he stays here and he’s happy anyway. Union job like that with steady pay? He’s already beat the rest of us. He’s gonna be the first Gallagher kid to get over the poverty line! Bet Lip’s gonna be a little pissed when he realizes Ian got there first.”

 

Debbie smiles reluctantly at this. Maybe Fiona’s right and this isn’t so bad. It doesn’t feel like it, though.

 

Their conversation is interrupted as Lip leaps off his barstool and screams over to Ian, “Is this fucking true?”

 

Everyone stops to stare at the two of them, and Ian rises slowly to his feet.

 

“I didn’t mean to tell him,” Mickey slurs apologetically, “Just slipped out, man.”

 

Ian ignores Mickey, his eyes steady on Lip’s. “Yeah,” Ian says, “It’s true. Don’t know why you care.”

 

“Fuck!” Lip yells, throwing his head back in frustration.

 

“What?” Fiona cries, “What happened?”

 

“These fucking _morons_ got fucking _married_ today!”

 

Oh, shit. Debbie’s jaw drops open and it feels like the temperature has fallen ten degrees in the room. Nobody says a word.

 

Ian’s defiance slips a little, and he turns toward Fiona. “We just got the license. They make you wait 24 hours between that and the actual ceremony. We’re doing it tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah, you know why they make you wait 24 hours?” Lip spits out, enraged, “So you have time to come to your senses and realize what a stupid fucking idea it is!”

 

“What about Svetlana?” Carl asks, hitting on a salient point that Debbie’s pretty sure none of them have even thought of.

 

“Got the divorce finalized two weeks ago,” Mickey says with a bit of pride or maybe just drunken bravado, “She’s got her green card. Bitch don’t need me no more.”

 

Fiona shakes her head. “But, Ian…you’re only eighteen. Why would you want--”

 

“Power of attorney,” Ian says firmly, “I don’t want anybody but Mickey in charge if…something happens.”

 

Lip’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his head. “Oh, so that’s what this is? Some little bitch revenge move? A big fat ‘fuck you’ to your family?”

 

Fiona’s wiping tears out of her eyes with the sides of her hands. She looks rattled. Debbie wants to ask her what ‘power of attorney’ means, what Ian’s talking about, but can’t find her voice.

 

“It’s not about you,” Ian says to Lip, “It’s about what _I_ want. And I want to make the decision now before I get to a point where I _can’t_ make that decision.”

 

Lip just shakes his head. “Jesus, you really are crazy. That’s who you want in charge of decisions about your fucking health? About your fucking finances? Your illiterate thug of a boyfriend? Fine. I’m done. Fuck you. Have a nice fucking life.”  


Lip grabs his coat off the bar and storms out. Ian puts a hand to his head and closes his eyes. Then Mickey’s there beside him, putting Ian’s coat over his shoulders.

 

“Hey, lets go now,” Mickey says quietly, “You gotta get to bed anyway.”

 

Ian gives in without a word and follows Mickey to the door, everyone else still sitting in stunned silence. Then Fiona pipes up.

 

“I want to be there,” she says.

 

Ian just looks at her.

 

“Tomorrow,” she continues, “At City Hall. We’re all gonna be there.”

 

Ian hesitates for a moment then sighs. “They open at nine.”

 

Fiona nods and Ian gives them all a half-assed wave goodnight as he and Mickey head out.

 

Nobody says anything after they’ve gone. The only sound is the squeak of Kev’s bar towel as he dries a glass. Vee starts stacking up abandoned paper plates and tossing them into the garbage.

 

“Does this mean we’re gonna have another party?” Carl asks.

 

Fiona puts her head in her hands and laughs.


	5. City Hall

Fiona drags Carl, Debbie, and Liam out of bed at the crack of dawn. She has them all scrubbed and dressed in their best clothes before seven o’clock.

Debbie doesn’t ask about school, even though it’s a Thursday. It seems implied that they’re not going. Neither she nor Carl ask about Lip either. He didn’t come back to the house after he left the party the previous night, and they’re both pretty sure they aren’t going to see him for a few days at least. Lip always needs time to cool off.

They take the train toward the loop with all the morning commuters heading in to work. It’s not the Gallaghers’ usual crowd, and it’s a little weird. Even Liam seems to sense something is off; he’s much more subdued than normal. He sits in Carl’s lap and acts shy as commuters smile at him. Everybody always thinks Liam’s adorable. Debbie doesn’t remember strangers ever thinking she was cute.

Fiona’s texting someone for almost the entire ride. Debbie’s pretty sure it’s Lip. She wants to tell Fiona not to bother—there’s no chance Lip’s coming—but when it comes to Lip, Fiona always bothers. In some ways, it seems, Fiona’s always seeking Lip’s approval more than anyone else’s.

City Hall is a massive, classical structure right in the middle of downtown. Debbie tells herself not to gawk at the buildings and the people but it’s hard; she almost never gets to go to the Loop and it’s like visiting an entirely different planet. Everything seems much bigger and more exciting, populated with much better-looking, better-dressed people. The thought crosses her mind that maybe she can get a job someday like these people with their nice clothes and their Starbucks cups have. Fiona had an office job; it can’t be that hard. And Debbie wouldn’t screw it up like Fiona did. Maybe that’ll be how Debbie gets out of the Southside. This foreign world of the Loop feels like it’s maybe far enough away.

They walk through the cavernous lobby and follow the signs down to the office marked “Marriages and Civil Unions” in the lower level of the building. It’s still a quarter until nine and the office hasn’t opened yet, but Ian and Mickey are seated on a bench in the hall.  They’re dressed almost identically in shirts and ties (Debbie commands herself not to giggle at the sight of Mickey in a tie) and they’re laughing about something. They’ve both got coffee cups from Dunkin’ Donuts and there’s a doughnut box on the bench beside them. Ian smiles when he sees his siblings.

“You two are lookin’ sharp,” Fiona says.

“Yeah, one time only,” Mickey says, pulling his collar out from his neck a little, “Shit’s going in the trash soon as we’re done.”

“Hang onto it,” Fiona advises, “It’s good to have something for court appearances.”

After Ian’s hugged all of them and thanked them each for coming (Carl points out that he gets to miss school, so it’s not much of a sacrifice), he holds open the box of doughnuts.

“You guys should pick first,” Debbie says, noting that none of the half-dozen have been eaten yet.

“Too nervous to eat,” Ian replies. Debbie realizes that they bought the doughnuts for Ian’s siblings, not for themselves. Apparently, Ian’s not annoyed that they’re here, like Debbie feared he might be.

Carl gladly takes the box from Ian and Debbie dives for a doughnut too, hoping to get the chocolate cake doughnut before Carl gets his fingers on it. She’s extremely pleased when she succeeds.

“You havin’ second thoughts?” Fiona asks Ian.

“Nope.”

“Good,” Fiona says, “Then you’re probably doing the right thing.”

Debbie sits down beside Mickey to eat her doughnut and notices that he’s jiggling his leg up and down anxiously. She breaks her doughnut into two, gives Mickey one half, and is pleased to see that being distracted by eating seems to calm him. It’s just like dealing with Liam. She files this information away for future use.

They only sit there a couple minutes more before a woman comes downstairs and starts unlocking the office door. She tells them all ‘Good Morning,’ heads inside and once she’s switched on the lights and turned around the open/close sign, invites them in. They all take seats in a smaller room and wait for further direction as the woman gets the office ready for the day and more employees begin trickling in.

“Who were you guys planning on having as witnesses?” Fiona whispers, “There’s only one of me and Debbie and Carl aren’t old enough.”

“They said they’d provide them,” Ian replies. “You can be one though. If you want to.”

Fiona smiles and leans her head on Ian’s shoulder. “I’d like that.”

Debbie sits on the folding chair watching Carl texting someone (his new girlfriend, maybe?), and she wonders why she doesn’t feel more excited for Ian and Mickey right now. Maybe because it doesn’t seem like a wedding without everyone here, without a party like Kev and Vee had? It feels more like the legal processes the Gallagher’s have been through more times than Debbie can remember, just a lot of waiting around to get papers stamped and signed.

This gets her thinking about what she’d read online last night when she Googled “power of attorney.” From what she could tell, skimming a couple different websites, getting married will make it easier for Ian to put Mickey in charge of making decisions about Ian’s health and finances should Ian become incapacitated. _Incapacitated_. That word frightens Debbie. As far as she can understand, the only way being bipolar might make Ian more likely to be incapacitated is if he seriously injured himself or is declared insane. She doesn’t like imagining either of these prospects, and it makes her uneasy that Ian is even preparing for the possibility. As crazy as Monica always acted, no one had ever come close to declaring her legally insane. She _had_ seriously injured herself, though…

That thought makes the doughnut in Debbie’s stomach feel like it’s going to come back up and she does her best to think about something else. She looks up at the fluorescent light fixtures and the framed photograph of Rahm Emanuel hanging behind the podium. Frank and Monica were married at City Hall. Debbie remembers Monica telling her that once, and wonders if this is the same room. She wonders if Ian’s thought about this, how that makes him feel. None of them has ever been as scornful about Frank and Monica’s marriage as Ian.

She glances over at Ian and is surprised to find that he’s looking back at her with that docile expression she’s always found so reassuring. Then he gives her a smile that betrays his nervousness but also his excitement. Debbie notices that he’s holding Mickey’s hand. Squeezing it, actually, Ian’s long fingers wrapped all the way around it. Maybe this isn’t just about legal rights and medical decisions after all. Maybe there’s something romantic about it too, even if Ian’s not going to say that’s what it’s about.

Eventually an official calls Ian and Mickey over to a desk where they’re asked to present their license and fill out some forms. 

“Marriage or Civil Union?” the woman asks.

“Marriage,” Ian replies.

The woman shuffles some papers, has them both fill out another form and, while they’re doing so, she asks, “Do you want us to read the ceremony with rings or just the standard ceremony?”

“Rings,” Mickey says.

Ian looks at him uncertainly, and Mickey gives him a nod. “We’re doin’ the one with the rings,” Mickey tells the official.

The ceremony is surprisingly short, over in less than three minutes. Fiona and a clerk act as witness and the boys do indeed exchange rings, produced from Mickey’s pocket. Ian and Mickey end with the kiss as instructed, though it’s a much more chaste kiss than anything Debbie saw last night at the Alibi. Then there’s a pause until the city workers in the room start clapping and the Gallaghers follow suit, Fiona giving a little cheer.

And, just like that, Ian and Mickey are married. The certificate is signed and sent off to be filed, and everyone finds themselves once again stepping back out onto Randolph, blinking into the bright morning sunlight, the flags of the City of Chicago and the United States of America flapping in the wind above them.

“That didn’t seem legit,” Carl says, “Frank’s wedding was longer.”

“It was a lot more legal than Frank’s wedding,” Fiona says. Then she turns toward Ian and Mickey. “You guys wanna go somewhere to celebrate? I’m buying.”

Mickey looks suddenly uncomfortable and Ian explains, “I got therapy at ten we gotta get to. Can’t really miss it.”

Fiona swiftly hides her disappointment, “At the clinic? Ride back down with us then." 

“No, I haven’t been to the clinic since the first set of meds,” Ian says, “I’ve been seeing folks up at Northwestern Memorial.”

“Northwestern Memorial?” Fiona eyes go big, “How’d you swing that?”

Ian cocks his head to the side and looks embarrassed. “Ned pulled some strings.”

“Ned? Ned Lishman? I thought you weren’t talking to him anymore.”

“I’m not. Mickey got in touch with him. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We just…we gotta get going.”

“Okay,” Fiona says, her disappointment showing now a little bit. Then she steps on tiptoes to given Ian a hug and a kiss. “Congratulations,” she tells him, “You got yourself a good one.”

“You’re my brother-in-law,” Debbie says to Mickey, just now realizing this.

“Oh, shit!” Carl says.

“That’s right!” Fiona laughs. She gives a very startled Mickey a hug and tells him, “Welcome to the Gallagher clan.”

“Uh, thanks,” he says. Debbie doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone’s ears redder than Mickey’s are at this moment. 

Then Fiona throws her hands in the air and cries, “Oh, my god! Pictures! We gotta get pictures of the newlyweds!”

That makes Ian laugh, though Mickey looks even more uncomfortable. They pose in front of the pillars just long enough to get a couple shots of Ian and Mickey together, with the younger siblings, and one with Fiona. Then Ian apologizes again, and he and Mickey bolt for the train.

Fiona’s enormous smile slowly fades as Ian and Mickey disappear into the hordes of pedestrians. She wipes a stray tear from the corner of her eye and puts away her phone.

“Are you upset because Ian got married before you did?” Carl asks.

“No,” Fiona says. She scoops up Liam and starts leading them back to the Orange Line. “But you guys gotta stop growing up after this, all right? I can’t take anymore of you making your own decisions and having your own lives.”

“You want us to just stay at home forever? Like Sheila?” Carl laughs.

“Exactly. All the bad things happen when you guys leave the house.”

Debbie thinks about this as they make their way down the sidewalk. Then she asks, “Do you think Ian and Mickey getting married is a bad thing?” 

“I think they’re too young,” Fiona says, “But what do I know? At least Mickey wants to stick it out with him through the messy stuff. More than I can say for any of the pussies I ever dated.”

Fiona leads them down the steps into the station and lets herself through the turnstile. Then she passes the Ventra card back over her shoulder so they can each let themselves through in turn. They head down another set of stairs to the platform to wait for their train.

“You think Lip’s ever gonna talk to Ian again?” Carl asks this as if it’s just another question, but Debbie knows the idea of his two brothers never speaking again is distressing to him. He’s always hated it when they were fighting.

“Lip loves Ian,” Fiona says, putting an arm over Carl’s shoulder and not getting at all miffed when he shrugs it off. “He’ll get over it,” she assures him, “He always does.”

Debbie knows there is truth to this. Lip is a hothead, but, at the end of the day, he always comes around. Sometimes it takes a while, but he does.

The thing Debbie is not certain about is whether Ian will ever forgive Lip. Ian has always been much more even-tempered, much more for keeping the peace, but he is also much more stubborn. He’d written off Frank earlier than Debbie could even remember, never once wavering with any longing for affection or attention from him like the rest of them all did at one point or another. It was like he built a wall of indifference and contempt between him and his father. And Monica too. When she left after Liam was born, Ian quietly declared her dead to him and never once mentioned her the entire time she was gone. Ian has never had a problem with compartmentalizing and writing people out of his life. When Ian decides he’s done, he’s done. It’s a bit scary, honestly.

But is he done with Lip? With all of them? She thinks about what Lip said at the party, that Ian getting married to Mickey was a big fuck you to the Gallaghers. Ian’s spent the last few months, and maybe much longer before that, building his own family with the Milkoviches. And now he’s cemented it. Maybe that’s the way Ian gets out now. Not out of the Southside—that dream is apparently too far out of reach—but out of the Gallaghers.  Debbie wonders if maybe all along it wasn’t the neighborhood he was trying to leave, but them.

* * *

Fiona takes them to pick up McDonald’s on the way home in some attempt to make the afternoon still feel slightly festive and she doesn’t even protest when Carl orders a value meal instead of cobbling items together from the dollar menu. As soon as they get back to the house, Carl takes his food upstairs (probably to eat while watching porn, Debbie thinks). Debbie’s about to take her lunch up to her room as well, but then she hesitates. Fiona has returned from putting Liam down for his nap in the living room and is now just standing there in the kitchen, looking lost.

“Are you okay?” Debbie asks.

“Yeah,” Fiona replies, putting on a big smile that’s supposed to distract from the visible tears forming in her eyes, “Yeah, Debs. I’m fine.”

Debbie gives her a skeptical look and then watches as Fiona’s whole face crumbles.

“Fiona,” Debbie cries, almost coming to tears herself. Fiona is not supposed to fall apart.

Fiona keens for a second, then crouches down on the floor and starts full-on bawling. Debbie plops onto the linoleum beside her and takes her big sister into her arms.

Fiona sobs on Debbie’s shoulder for several minutes. Finally, Fiona manages to say in a strangled voice, “I guess it’s just finally hitting me.” She chokes on another sob and then squeaks, “He’s gone. He’s not coming back. And it’s my fault…”

“No it’s not. Fiona, no…” And now Debbie’s crying too. Suddenly it all feels overwhelming. 

Fiona shakes her head, eyes wide, as she begins talking, sounding like she’s explaining things to herself as much as Debbie. “I thought he must’ve been with friends, having a good time, kicking back. I thought it was healthy—he was always wound up so tight with all his rules and plans and shit…God, I can’t even think about what he must’ve been going through…and I was so stupid. I thought ‘oh, good for Ian! Out having fun for once without any responsibilities! Wish I could do that!’ Jesus, what an idiot… I can’t believe I…I should’ve been out there twenty-four hours a day until I found him. The only thing I do that’s worth anything in this world is keeping you guys safe and, god, did I fuck that up…shit…that poor kid…”

Debbie tries to ignore the way her heart is seizing up in her chest as she holds Fiona tight. None of them have ever talked about what might have happened to Ian while he was away. None of them has ever wanted to even think about it and making mention of it, acknowledging the possibilities, makes it all much more sickeningly real.

Neither of them says anything more for a bit. Fiona slowly begins to get control of herself again, her sobs dying down into a lot of snuffling. Debbie lets go of her and dries her own eyes with a dishtowel.

Fiona wipes her nose on the sleeve of her nice sweater, then looks at Debbie with concern and asks, “How are _you_ doing?”

“Me?” Debbie shrugs, “I’m okay. My entire family’s gone _insane_ , but that’s nothing new.”

Fiona smiles. “You wanna have a pedi party tonight? Vee’s got some new colors she’s been after me to try.”

“Nah,” Debbie says, “I’m going over to Matty’s tonight.”

“I don’t know that I like you goin’ over there, Debs.”

Debbie rolls her eyes and climbs to her feet. “Don’t worry. He won’t even let me kiss him.”

“So, what do you do when you’re over there then?”

“Mostly we watch movies. He likes really weird stuff.” Debbie holds out her hand and helps haul Fiona back to her feet.

“Not porn, is it?”

“No. God. No, it’s like…English comedies and weird horror movies.”

Fiona starts unpacking her and Debbie’s lunches from the bag. The fries have gone cold and limp, but Fiona shoves a couple in her mouth anyway as she asks, “So, that’s all you do? Watch weird movies?”

“He likes music too. And sometimes we play Final Fantasy.”

Fiona raises an eyebrow. “I don’t like the sound of whatever that is.”

“It’s a video game. There’s, like, elves and stuff.”

“Oh. That kind of fantasy. So, it sounds like you’re just friends?”

Debbie sighs. “Yeah.”

“Well, do me a favor and keep it that way, okay?”

Debbie throws herself into her chair and scowls over her chicken nuggets. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m gonna be a virgin until I’m eighty and some demented old guy at the nursing home mistakes me for his dead wife.”

Fiona grins and points a fry at Debbie. “I like that plan!”

Debbie just shakes her head and grimly eats her pseudo-celebratory lunch.

* * *

 

That night, Debbie lays sprawled out on Matty’s floor while he sits on the couch, playing a line on his bass over and over again.  She gazes up at the water-stained ceiling, toys with the ends of her hair, and her mind drifts to Ian.

Ian’s married now. Yesterday he wasn’t; today he is. One day he was her teenage brother; Now he’s an adult. Once upon a time, she could be sure to find him sitting on his bed, listening to music and reading books about the military or artillery or helicopters. His little corner of the boys’ room was like an oasis of calm in their house. She could count on him not to tell her to go away when she sat down by his feet, never to tell her to shut up when she started complaining about whatever it was that was making her upset. He’d just listen, his big eyes trained placidly on her face, looking out from under ginger eyelashes and freckled eyelids that were just like hers. And sometimes he’d say something when she was done, some simple response that helped her put things into perspective. But sometimes he didn’t say anything, just scooted to make room as she crawled up to sit beside him, lean against him, wedge herself into the safe space between his arm and his chest.

She always felt better with Ian. She always felt that, as long as Ian was there in that calm little corner of the house, nothing could ever go too wrong. Then Ian left and Frank took over Ian’s bed, a perversion almost too awful to bear. Now no one’s in the bed, and everything is different. And Ian’s never coming back.

“Do you want to get married?” Debbie asks, startling Matty into dropping his pick.

“What?" 

“Not like now. Or to me. But, like, do you want to get married to someone someday?”

“Um, sure. Yeah. Someday.”

“Why?”

Matty shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to be alone.”

Debbie doesn’t say anything more, and after a minute Matty returns to his practice, playing the same line of notes over and over.

All those years when Ian could be found just chilling on his bed, acting like he never had a problem in the world…all those years, Ian was working on building a life that none of them knew about. No one knew where Ian went when he would leave the house, who he was with, what he was doing. Everybody just followed his lead and acted like it was nothing, as if Ian failed to exist when he wasn’t at home. But all that time he was working on a plan. Not the one he told them about, the one about the army, though that was part of it. No. All along he was putting all the pieces together of a plan to no longer be alone. One way or another he was going to find people who knew him and would love him and see him as himself. In a houseful of Gallaghers, Ian kept a thousand secrets. They all thought they knew him, but they didn’t know anything. He was always alone. But now maybe he’s not.

She wonders if Mickey knows all Ian’s secrets, or if Ian doesn’t need to have them anymore.

Matty stops playing abruptly and sets aside his bass. Then he leans over and looks down at Debbie. “Whatcha thinking about?” he asks her. He has a beautiful smile.

Debbie can’t help but smile back. “Not being alone,” she replies.

He laughs and smiles again. He has cute teeth. How is possible for someone to have cute teeth?

“Come here,” he says, and pulls her up to the couch.

Debbie scoots in happily to the safe space between his arm and his chest. 

“Let’s be not alone together, how ‘bout?” he says.

Debbie sighs and settles in deeper against him as he starts flipping through the Netflix queue. She doesn’t feel all that much more calm, but this will have to do. Sometimes it’s better just to not be alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, and feedback are greatly appreciated!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [Zebra Wallpaper](http://zebrawallpaper.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chlorinated

Debbie and Carl are walking home from the bus stop after school one Friday and are surprised to find Lip sitting on the front steps of the house. He’s smoking and looks peeved.

“What the fuck?” He says in greeting, “Where’s Fiona?”

“She got an extra shift.” Debbie takes off her backpack and tosses it by the door. Carl does the same and they each take a seat on either side of Lip.

“Where’s Liam?”

“At Sheila’s.” Debbie makes a face at the cigarette and Lip obliges by holding it lower, near his knees, so it’s not blowing in her eyes. The answers do not appear to be as satisfying to Lip as he’d like. He’s been working up outrage for a while here, and now he’s got nowhere to direct it.

Debbie feels kind of sorry for him. He’s taken on more responsibility for the house since he left for college, but he still has less and less of an idea what’s going on there every time he returns. It’s the same with Fiona this past year, but neither of them seems ready to acknowledge this, let alone accept it. Ian running away last year set off a chain reaction where, one after the other, the Gallaghers started leaving and never fully coming back. First Ian was just gone. Then they started seeing less of Fiona as she got sucked into the world of Mike and the cups job. Then Lip left for college, and the house started to feel like an overstuffed purse emptied out and collapsing in on itself. Without ever talking about it, Debbie and Carl both started spending more time away from Wallace Street. They’ve all come back home at various points since then, but they keep on leaving again and again in a dozen different ways. No one’s ever going to stay permanently again, Debbie knows now. It’s just an inevitable game of musical chairs until there’s one lousy chair left and no one interested in sitting in it.

Lately, these thoughts are bothering Debbie less. Maybe she’s just starting accept it. Maybe she’s getting tired of fighting it. Maybe she no longer cares.

She shrugs off her coat. It’s the first real spring day after what has felt like a winter that would never end. The sky’s not quite more blue than gray yet, but the breeze has a gentleness to it they haven’t felt since last September. This winter was so long.

“Going to a hotel tonight,” Carl says then, hoping to impress Lip.

Lip takes a drag from his cigarette. “Yeah. Heard about that.”

Carl is annoyed. “From who?”

“Ian.”

Debbie looks at Lip in surprise. “You saw Ian?”

Lip nods. “Had lunch on campus today.” 

This is certainly news. Ian’s been working at the university for over two months now and neither brother has mentioned anything about so much as seeing the other. Debbie’s head is filled with a hundred questions, but Lip starts talking again before she can figure out which one to ask.

“He’s wearing a wedding ring,” Lip says with a smirk, “Always was too romantic for his own good.”

“Mickey got the rings,” Carl says and Debbie can’t tell whether it’s Ian or Mickey that Carl is attempting to defend from Lip’s scorn.

“That so?” Lip replies, still seeming amused.

Debbie nods, corroborating Carl’s story. The rings are the only sign she’s seen so far that indicates anything has changed in Ian and Mickey’s relationship since that morning at the courthouse. Without those two metal bands (Ian’s has a bit of string wrapped around the underside to keep it from sliding off his narrow fingers; otherwise they are identical), you’d never know their relationship had been formalized. She supposes that’s why Mickey was so insistent on the rings. It’s a clear sign to the world that Ian belongs to someone. Maybe Ian likes Mickey wearing a ring for the same reason.

“Nice of him to do that for you guys,” Lip says, getting back to the topic of the hotel, “Sure they don’t have too much extra money over there.”

A couple days ago, Debbie and Carl had been by to the Milkovich house and been surprised when Ian announced he wanted to take them to spend a night at a hotel. “With room service and stuff,” he’d said, “You should get to do it once at least. It’s fun.” They’d been excited by the idea but also a little nervous. It made Debbie think about Monica. It didn’t seem that far off from the kind of thing Monica would have suggested doing on one of her “up” days.

Apparently Carl had made the same connection because now he asks Lip, “Is Ian going crazy like Monica did? Like buying stuff and being all happy?”

Debbie feels ill hearing Carl ask this, understanding that the real fear is the part of the equation he hasn’t asked about, but only implied. If Ian’s just like Monica on a high, isn’t he going to be just like Monica on a low? They already know the answer to that a little bit—they’ve seen it—but the real fear is if Ian might hit the lowest low that Monica had, lower even than anything they were witness to these past few months.

“Ian is not Monica,” Lip says firmly, his tone much more angry than either of them was expecting, “Ian is Ian. He’s just dealing with some new shit now." 

Lip sucks on his cigarette as if he’s trying to suck the tobacco straight out of the paper. Then he continues, “When he was manic when he came back, did he steal the squirrel fund?”

Carl glares down at his shoes. “No.”

“Did he screw us all over somehow that I missed? Did he put you in a car and crash it?”

“He crashed a helicopter,” Carl says.

Lip cocks his head slightly. He has to give Carl that. Then he says, “Yeah, but did he hurt anybody but himself? Did he put any of you guys in danger?”

“No,” Carl says. 

“Yeah, so give him a fucking break. He ain’t Monica. Ian’s a million times the person Monica could ever be, and just because he’s got her fucking disease to deal with now doesn’t mean that’s changed.”

“Then why’re you so pissed at him?” Carl asks.

Lip hesitates. He takes out another cigarette and lights it while still smoking the last bit of the first one and for a bizarre second he smokes both, taking the time to think about his response. Then he stubs out the old cigarette and says, “Because I think it could be a lot easier for him if he would fucking let me help. I don’t like some of the decisions he’s making.”

“Like marrying Mickey?” Debbie asks.

Lip raises an eyebrow. “For one,” he says.

“Was that, like, a crazy Monica idea?” Carl asks and Debbie winces, afraid that’s going to set Lip off again. It doesn’t, though. He seems to get what Carl’s asking.

“I don’t know,” Lip replies, “Maybe. All those weeks holed up at Mickey’s, though…he had plenty of time to think about it, and it sounds like he did some research. I don’t think this was some spur of the moment decision. Just a dumb one.”

So Lip still thinks it was about him, about Ian getting revenge at Lip, and maybe Fiona. Debbie’s come to believe that this notion is more about Lip’s ego than the reality of the situation, though possibly it factored into Ian’s decision on some level. Still, it isn’t worth arguing with Lip, especially when it sounds like he might be finally putting his resentment about it aside long enough to make amends with Ian.

“You didn’t tell him all this at lunch, did you?” She asks. She wouldn’t put it past him to try and over-explain the reasoning behind his anger to Ian the first chance he gets. Lip rarely passes up an opportunity to show off what he considers his superior reasoning skills, especially when he feels he’s in the right about something.

“Of course not,” he says, and Debbie is surprised to see that he looks abashed. “If I keep fightin’ with him every time we talk, he’s just gonna stop talkin’ to me all together. You know how he is. And I don’t want my brother not talkin’ to me, even if he is a shithead.”

This is progress, but Debbie wonders how long this kind of peace will last before Lip starts pushing Ian to do what Lip wants, or makes passive-aggressive remarks when Ian doesn’t do things the way Lip would. Lip doesn’t really know how to not be the big brother, how to not be the one who’s always right. Maybe college is changing that, though. There have been moments recently—not a lot, but a few—where Lip has actually backed off on his self-righteousness, letting Fiona have the final say about things, or actually admitting that Debbie’s right when she accuses him of treating her like a child. It’s surprising.

“So, I don’t suppose anybody’s gonna be interested in eating the ten pounds of turkey tetrazzini I lugged all the way over here, huh?” Lip asks.

“Ian said we’re ordering room service,” Carl replies.

Lip nods. “Guess I’m on my own tonight.”

“You could go visit Frank and Sheila,” Carl offers.

“Yeah, no thanks. I think spending the night with my bioinformatics text book sounds more appealing.”

“Where’s Amanda?” Debbie asks, looking at Amanda’s car parked across the street.

 “Miami.”

“She gonna take you sometime?” Carl asks.

“Dunno. Maybe. Not sure I have any interest in Florida.”

“I’ll go,” Carl says. 

That makes Lip smile as he stands up and stubs out the last of his cigarette. “You guys better get your stuff together so you’re ready when Ian shows up.”

“Um, do you want to come with us?” Debbie asks, suddenly feeling bad that Lip was not invited.

“Nah,” Lip replies, handing them each their backpacks and following them inside. “He’s doing this for you guys. Think he’s trying to say thanks.”

“For what?” Debbie asks.

“Bein’ there. When he was low.”

Carl makes a face. “What else would we have done? Ignored him?”

Lip doesn’t say anything in response to this. He just heads on into the bathroom.

Carl turns to Debbie and gives her a ‘they’re all crazy’ look. Debbie shrugs and starts getting her things together. They are all crazy, but she’ll take peace over fighting any day. And, even if she’s nervous about why Ian dreamed up this plan, she’s really quite excited to spend a night in a hotel. Even Holly’s never done that.

* * *

They end up at a hotel by Midway that Ian assures them he booked dirt cheap online. It's nothing special, but since the place is full of business travelers, the Gallaghers have the indoor pool all to themselves, and that’s pretty neat. They play for hours, racing and wrestling and making up different kinds of challenges, forming various teams (boys vs. girl, old vs. youngers, redheads vs. sandy-haired) in the process. Marco Polo, Keep Away, Tag, and Atomic Whirlpool are way more fun with this much space to play and no soggy toddler diapers to watch out for.

They also just float around in the water, enjoying the luxurious freedom while shooting the shit. They talk about nothing important—nonsense they saw on TV, stories of family hijinks they’ve retold a dozen times but somehow never get old. For a while, Debbie forgets everything that’s happened this past year. She floats on her back, listening to Ian and Carl smacktalking each other and then trying to dunk each other under. She closes her eyes, the rushing sound of the water pressing up against her ears and it’s easy to imagine that they are all children once again, and that life is less complicated.

When they’ve had their fill of the pool and are wrinkled like pale raisin people, they lounge in the hot tub. It’s not long before they're all sweltering, but still they don't get out.  
  
"This is sweet," Carl says, moving so that one of the jets is on his back and closing his eyes in pleasure.

“Yeah,” Debbie smiles at Ian, “This is really nice.”

Ian smiles, seeming pleased. Then he stretches his arms out over the side of the hot tub and relaxes back into its bubbly, steamy comfort. There’s been a tight set to his jaw for months, and it’s nice to witness that melting away.  
  
After the pool, they loll around on the big beds in their hotel room, reeking of chlorine, and order up a ridiculous amount of room service. Debbie and Carl hang back uncomfortably when the bellboy wheels it all in and watch, impressed, as Ian casually tips him. Then they argue about what to watch and settle on  _Swamp People_  while they eat. Debbie can't get over that every item is served with a separate doily and steel cover. Carl thinks the tiny bottles of ketchup and Tabasco are hilarious and pockets them for unnamed future purpose. Ian just seems to be getting a kick out of how novel his siblings are finding it all. Debbie wonders if Ian was as impressed as they are the first time Dr. Lishman ordered him room service. She bets Ian played it cool; Fiona’s always said Ian has one hell of a poker face.  
  
When the food is gone, just a stack of plates dotted with parsley and dill pickles (none of them have ever liked dill pickles), Carl reveals that he's brought a duffle bag stuffed with cans of beer. Ian hesitates, and Debbie is curious to see how this plays out. Although Ian’s always been better about not talking down to them than Fiona and Lip, he’s historically been a lot more strict about this kind of thing than his older siblings. If Ian’s around, they don’t get away with as much. Tonight, he gives in, though, and while Carl’s triumphant, Debbie can’t help but feel like Ian’s trying to buy their happiness any way he can.

Still, she doesn’t want to throw a nice gesture back in his face, so she sips at a beer and tries not to feel guilty. She also gives Carl a look that says, ‘don’t make him regret being nice.’ Carl rolls his eyes, understanding through their Irish twin psychic connection exactly what her look means. Debbie’s glad to see, though, that Carl gets it and doesn’t push things. He doesn’t drink much more than Debbie does.

Things carry on fairly quietly for a while until Carl gets antsy for more stimulation. He pinches Debbie and asks, "Can I watch porn?"  
  
"Ew, Carl, no," Debbie shouts, "Not when we have to share the same room. You're disgusting."  
  
"I'll get you porn at home," Ian says.  
  
"I've  _got_  porn at home," Carl replies, "But I wanted to see  _hotel_  porn."  
  
"It's usually not very good," Ian tells him.  
  
"Gay porn, maybe. I bet the titty porn is good."  
  
Ian just shrugs at that, but doesn't give in to Carl's request. Debbie’s glad to see that there’s some limits on what Ian’s willing to do to keep them happy, though it makes her happy to realize that Ian’s just as disinterested in ‘titty porn’ as she is. She wonders briefly if she’d like gay porn like Ian probably watches, since the idea of sexy men with other sexy men sounds pretty hot, but then she wonders if that’s the beer making her think that and tables the thought for later.

They drink more warm beer and cackle at the TV and Carl suggests going back to the pool but Ian puts the kibosh on that ("No swimming when tipsy, guys. Ever.") When they can no longer find anything on TV but commercials and annoying programs, they move out to the plastic chairs on the room's tiny balcony and watch the planes coming in and taking off. It's loud but it's amazing. They've never been so close.  
  
The beer hits Ian harder and faster than it used to, maybe because of his medication. Debbie and Carl make amused eyes at each other as this becomes clear to them but not to Ian. He's slurring his words a little but babbling cheerfully about the different types of airplanes and how he could see stars in the night sky when he went to Basic.  
  
"There's so many more stars than you can see in the city," he marvels, not remembering that he used to tell them the same thing when he’d return from ROTC excursions, "It's incredible. There's too much light here; it keeps you from seeing everything. You have no idea how much more is out there..."  
  
Debbie watches the expression on Carl's face and can tell he's going to take advantage of this opportunity and ask Ian stuff. She's afraid he's going to ask Ian about Basic Training again, and it's going to ruin the night. She tries to give Carl a look that says 'don't,' but he pays her no attention. Luckily, he doesn't ask about Basic. Instead he asks, "Do you  _like_  being a janitor?"  
  
Ian smiles and leans back farther in his chair. He waits to respond until another jet has roared past, then he says, "I like having to be somewhere everyday, and I like having a paycheck. I like that I can just do my work, and nobody bothers me."  
  
"That's cool," Carl says, and Debbie nods in agreement. She hadn't thought about it before, but maybe Mickey had the right idea, finding Ian that job. Ian has always liked a sense of order and now, probably more than ever, it’s what he needs.  
  
"Have you cleaned up puke?" Carl asks.  
  
Ian laughs. "Not yet. Sure I will sooner or later."

An alarm sounds then on Ian’s watch. He switches it off and gives them an awkward smile. “Sorry,” he says as he heads back into the room.

Debbie and Carl turn in their chairs to watch as Ian removes a plastic case from his bag and quickly takes a series of pills with a glass of tap water. As he’s doing so, his phone rings. He swallows the last pill and answers, trying to keep his voice low, but they can clearly hear his side of the conversation through the open sliding door.

“Hey, Mick.”

“Yeah, just now.”

“Yeah.”

“With water. Jesus.”

“No, everything’s fine. It’s good.”

“No.”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, well, I gotta get back. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

“Uh, by noon, probably. Check out’s at eleven." 

“Yeah. Okay.”

Then a funny look comes over Ian’s face and he closes his eyes, as if that will somehow make what he says next more private. “Love you too.”

Carl scrunches up his face and Debbie giggles, but they both manage to become stone-faced as Ian comes back out to the balcony and retakes his seat.

He takes a sip of his beer and watches a plane flying low for a landing.

“What’s it like being married?” Carl asks.

Ian smiles behind the rim of his beer can. “I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Is it nice?” Debbie asks.

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass.”

“What do you mean?”

Ian plays with the pull-tab on his beer can as he thinks. Then he responds, “I mean, your problems are their problems and their problems are your problems. You kinda share everything like that. And that’s nice sometimes, knowing Mickey’s got my back no matter what. And he chose that—nobody forced him…it makes you feel good, or whatever.”

Ian stretches out his legs and pushes his stocking feet between the rails of the balcony. He wiggles his toes over the ledge. Then he continues:

“But that means he knows everything about me and that sucks. You don’t get to go back, you know? To when they didn’t know you were so fucked up. You never get to un-learn about somebody’s shit...”

He trails off, almost as if he’s forgotten that’s he’s been speaking these things out loud and not just thinking them. Then he eyes his beer can warily, blaming it for this out of character confession, and sets it down on the concrete.

Carl’s about to prod Ian with another question, but Ian cuts him off. “When’s school get out?” he asks, “Pretty soon, right?” 

“Yeah,” Debbie says. “A couple weeks.” She takes a long swig of beer at this reminder that final exams are coming up. 

“God,” Ian says, shaking his head in wonder, “You’re starting high school then, Carl.”

“If I pass everything.”

“Fuck,” Ian murmurs, “How does that happen?” Then he asks, “You think you’re doing summer school?”

“Nah,” Carl grins, “Ramirez wants me the hell out of there. She brought me the form for my cap and gown herself.”

Ian laughs. “So, what’re you doing with your summer, then?”

“I dunno. I want to get a job, I guess.”

“Doing what?”

Carl shrugs. Then he smiles. “You think Mickey could use some help with the girls? I could be, like, his assistant.”

Ian smacks Carl lightly upside the head. “Don’t even think of asking him.”

“I need a job too,” Debbie moans, “Nobody’ll bring their kids near the house since what happened to Liam.”

Ian gives her a sympathetic look and finishes off his beer. “You takin’ any summer classes? I took a bunch. Good way to knock out credits.”

Debbie shakes her head. “ _I’m_ not trying to get into West Point.”

Carl sits up suddenly in his chair then, causing both his siblings to turn and look at him. He has a strange expression on his face, like he’s nervous about something.

“What’s up?” Ian asks him.

“Would you…” Carl starts, but stops himself. He hesitates, then tries again. “I wanna sign up for ROTC in the fall. Would you be mad?”

Ian appears terribly confused. He blinks and then asks, “Why the hell would you want to?”

“I dunno,” Carl shrugs, blushing, “You always made it sound really cool.”

Debbie scoffs, hoping to alleviate Ian’s obvious dismay, “Oh, please. You’d drop out after two days. You’re way too lazy.”

“Shut up,” Carl snarls.

“It is really hard work,” Ian says, having regained his composure, “And you gotta keep in shape. It’s murder if you’re not in shape.”

“I’m in shape,” Carl argues, “I can press ninety pounds.”

“What?” Ian laughs, “Where’ve you been lifting weights?”

“With Mickey.”

“No shit?” Ian laughs again, “That’s what he does all day when I’m at work? Fucks around with you?”

“Just after school. Mickey said you used to press 230.”

“ _Used_ to.”

Carl looks smug. “Yeah. Mickey says I could kick your ass now.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Bet I could.”

Ian smiles at this. “Oh, yeah? You think so?”

“Fuck yeah.”

Now Debbie’s rolling her eyes as her brothers head into the room and assume wrestling stances in the space between the beds and the TV. “Stop,” she says, following them in, “Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not gonna hurt him,” Carl says which makes Ian snort.

Then Ian puts on a serious expression, patronizing Carl. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Debbie opens her mouth to protest again, but before she even gets the words out, Ian has caught Carl in a headlock and flipped him around so his arms are folded behind his back and he’s forced to bend at the waist. Carl struggles but can’t move more than an inch or get his arms free.

“That’s not fair,” Carl complains, his voice strained.

“How’s it not fair?” Ian asks, “I’m weak and a mental defect. Come on. Kick my ass.”

Carl struggles some more, grunting as he tries unsuccessfully to get loose.

Then Ian gives Debbie a look and a nod. She knows she shouldn’t, but she can’t pass up the opportunity. She steps forward, grinning, and begins to tickle Carl.

“Stop!” He cries, “Bitch! Stop!”

Debbie tortures Carl until he shouts that he’s going to piss his pants, and she relents. Ian lets go of Carl then, but is caught off guard as both Carl and Debbie turn on him. 

“Guys, no!” He cries as they tickle attack him. He falls back onto one of the beds and they follow, unrelenting. “Shit! Shit!” He gasps between laughter. “Shit! Stop!”

He manages, finally, to get a hand on each sibling and shove them off and they all collapse in hysterical, exhausted giggles.

“Crap,” Ian mutters, catching sight of the clock, “I gotta get to bed.”

Debbie and Carl don’t give him a hard time about this. They know keeping to a regular schedule is important for Ian’s health; Fiona’s only mentioned it half a dozen times this week, warning them not to keep him up too late at the hotel. They’re tired and pleasantly tipsy anyway. Bed sounds good.

Carl drops off quick, snoring steadily no matter how many times Ian elbows him or shoves him onto his side. Debbie, however, lies awake in the dark for a while, her mind spinning with thoughts. From the sound of his breathing, she can tell that Ian’s still awake too in the other bed. Frustrated at not being able to settle her brain down enough to sleep, she blurts out a question at him, tossing at least one of those nagging thoughts out of her head.

“How was Monica when you were staying with her?” She’s been wanting to ask him this for months, and it’s terrifying hearing it tumbling from between her teeth.

There is such a long pause that Debbie becomes worried that she’s angered him. But then he does answer, bluntly.

“Still crazy.” 

It hurts to hear this, but Debbie pushes that pain away and asks, “Why’d you stay with her then?”

Another long pause. “I guess it was better than being alone.”

Debbie sits up and turns toward Ian and Carl’s bed. “Then why didn’t you come home if you didn’t want to be alone?” 

“Debs…”

“No,” she snaps, her anger at full force now, “I want to know. Why didn’t you come home? We missed you. We _needed_ you.”

He takes a deep breath and exhales it all out. The pale planes of his face and shoulders are drawn clearly by the moonlight, making him look like a talking skeleton in the dark. “I didn’t want to go home a failure,” he replies. He pauses then adds, almost to himself, “I hate it so much.”

Debbie takes this in, noting his shift from past to present tense, and she feels her anger being replaced by sadness. The fact that this is what he believed and still believes seems wholly unfair and makes her heart ache. “I don’t think you’re a failure,” she says.

“That makes one of us.” He rolls over then and re-fluffs his pillow before settling back down into it. “I really gotta get to sleep, though.”

“Okay,” she gives in, not wanting to push him.

“Night.” 

“Goodnight.”

She lies there for a few minutes, looking at the smoke detector blinking on the ceiling, and she knows that she can’t leave it like this. She rolls back over.

“Ian?”

He sighs. “Yeah?”

“You’re not a failure.”

The bedclothes rustle as he rolls back toward Debbie’s bed, and he extends his arm into the space between the two beds. Debbie obliges and holds out her hand to meet his. He takes it and squeezes it, and rubs his thumb over her palm in a way that is almost magically soothing. Then he leans over and brings her hand to his lips and kisses it, as if she is some regal, elegant lady.

Gently, he pushes her hand back toward her then settles back into his bed.

“Goodnight, Debbie.”

“Goodnight.”

After a bit, she hears the sound of Ian snoring and takes this as her cue to give up on worrying for the night. She curls into a ball with her kissed hand held tightly against her chest. It helps her forget for a while that the world is so mean.

* * *

Debbie wakes with a bit of a headache, which she attributes to the beer. It takes her a second to remember where she is, then she rolls over, squinting her eyes into the morning sunlight. She had one bed; Carl and Ian took the other. Only now it’s just Carl in the bed.

“Ian?” she calls out. No reply.

She climbs from the bed only to find the bathroom unoccupied and no sign of her brother anywhere else in the room. She checks the balcony, then hits Carl on the shoulder.

“Where’s Ian?”

“How the hell should I know?” Carl groans and rolls back over to sleep.

Debbie takes out her phone to call Ian but then notices that Ian’s phone, house keys, and wedding band are stacked neatly on the table between the two beds. Her heart seizes up in panic. 

Without a second thought, Debbie runs out of the room, down the hall, down four flights of stairs, and doesn’t have a coherent thought beyond ‘Oh, god, no’ until she skids to a stop in front of the check-in desk.

“My brother,” she gasps, “Have you seen my brother?!”

The desk clerk takes one look at Debbie’s red hair and knows exactly whom she’s talking about. “I believe he’s at the pool,” he replies.

“Oh, god!” Debbie squeaks and bolts down the hall to the pool room. She slips on the wet tile in her bare feet as she plows through the door and only just saves herself from falling flat on her ass. 

There is one person in the pool: Ian, swimming a steady, powerful crawl stroke.

Debbie stands there panting for a moment, watching him complete his lap then turn gracefully to begin another. Then, before she is even aware that her body is moving, Debbie jumps into the water, claws her way across the pool and begins attacking him.

“You’re so stupid! Fucking, stupid idiot! Why did you have to? Fucking asshole!” The words are pouring out of her mouth nonsensically as she catches Ian by surprise, pounding her fists against his chest and shoulders, crying and half-choking on water. 

“Jesus!” He cries, shielding himself with one arm and reaching out with the other to try and stop her, “Debs! What the fuck? Debs! Stop!”

He manages to catch her and pull her close so that her arms are pinned to her sides. Then he lifts her slightly from the water and begins slapping her back with the flat of his palm. Debbie hacks up the water she’s taken in, coughing so hard she nearly vomits. Her breath, once caught, though, turns immediately to hitched sobs. Ian sets her back down gently and pushes her hair out of her face, smoothing it over the top of her head.

“I didn’t know where you were,” she says, her voice hoarse and pathetic.

“I just went for a swim.” He looks bewildered.

She wipes snot from her chin, her nose burning from the inhaled chlorine. “I’m so scared,” she sniffs.

“Why? What’re you scared of?”

Debbie tries for a long moment to form words, then she chokes out, “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Aw, Debs.” Ian sighs and takes her into his arms. 

She sobs against his wet, clammy chest, only just now becoming really aware of the fact that she’s standing in a swimming pool in her pajamas. She doesn’t care, though. She’s just relieved that he’s okay and relieved to finally have her fears out in the open. She thinks now that if she’d tried to hold onto them for one minute more, her heart would’ve simply collapsed from the strain of hiding it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ian says softly, “You don’t have to worry.”

“I’m so scared you’re gonna do something…” Debbie hears herself whisper.

“I know,” Ian says, “I’m scared too.”

This makes Debbie cry harder. “Hey,” Ian says and pushes her back so that she is looking face to face with him, “Come on, now. Listen to me.”

Debbie manages to dampen her sobs down to a snuffle as she looks into his eyes. Lip used to call them Ian’s Bambi eyes, when he’d get sad and serious and his eyes seem to grow into two big puddles of earnestness.

“I’m doing everything I can to keep anything like that from happening, okay?” he says with an even, reassuring tone, “All the pills they want me to take, all the things my doctor’s say I should do, I’m doing. I’m doing everything Monica never did. I’m not gonna be like her. I wouldn’t do that to you guys.”

Debbie blinks back more tears. “What if it’s not enough?”

“Then I do more. Okay? I see more doctors or different doctors and take different pills and try other stuff. I do whatever it takes until it works. But I don’t want you to worry, all right? There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“But you said you’re scared.”

“Of course I am. But I’m a lot less scared than I was before.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. At least now I know what the problem is. I didn’t know _what_ was wrong with me. I thought I was going crazy. I mean, I was, but…” Ian trails off, his eyes going a bit distant before they return to Debbie with renewed adamancy. “Anyway, stop worrying. Okay? No need to.”

And she realizes that, despite his firm tone, he’s begging her to stop worrying, not telling her to. He’s never wanted this kind of attention, and Debbie understands that. She’s never liked anyone worrying about her either. It feels like people go from not seeing you at all to suddenly demanding you strip off all your clothes and then your skin as well, forcing you to stand in front of them more naked than naked. That kind of scrutiny is unbearable.

Debbie makes a conscious decision while standing there in the pool: she’s going to believe him. Ian’s never lied to her. He’s the only adult she knows who hasn’t. She can give him this.

She lets out a deep breath, her throat still burning from the swallowed chlorine. Ian smiles, looking relieved that he has managed to allay her fears, kick the monsters back under the bed for another night more.

“Come on,” he says, “Let’s get upstairs before you catch cold.”

He climbs over the side of the pool, then turns to help lift her out. Debbie bats him off and pulls herself out of the pool. As she stands up, dripping, she becomes immediately aware of two things: she is freezing cold, and her pajama bottoms have become practically transparent. She wraps her arms around herself, shivering and self-conscious about the fact that her brother can see her underwear plain as day. But Ian doesn’t take the opportunity to make fun of her the way Carl or even Lip probably would. He’s already grabbed several towels from the stack by the hot tub, and he begins wrapping them around her.

One or two towels would be sufficient, but Ian continues wrapping her up like a mummy. He’s smiling as he does so, and Debbie tries to get him to stop, but he’s rapidly got her disabled with a tight layer of white terrycloth. She can’t move her arms and nearly topples over.

“Ian, stop!” she giggles as he scoops her up and carries her out, his feet slapping wetly on the tile. 

“Stop!” She cries again as he carries her through the lobby and down the hall to the elevator.

He pays no attention to her pleas, but a small curve at the corner of his lips betrays his amusement.

Inside the elevator, Debbie manages to elbow him hard in the gut, but Ian doesn’t lose his composure. He simply repositions his grip on her and gazes forward like one of those soldiers in England with the funny hats who aren’t allowed to crack a smile.

A couple years back, Debbie had tripped over one of Ian’s free weights he’d left by the couch, and she sprained her ankle. Consumed by guilt, Ian had spent weeks carrying her up and down the stairs, from her bedroom to the bathroom and back, from the living room to the kitchen to the back yard…anywhere she wanted to go. Debbie had actually gotten proficient walking on her cast, but he’d insisted. She’d finally had to yell at him to stop. He’d put on his Bambi eyes then too. He hasn’t changed a bit.

“You’re an idiot,” she says as the elevator opens on their floor.

“Did you have any doubt?” He replies and carries her onward to their room.

The alarm on Ian’s watch is going off as they enter the room, though Carl’s still snoring and appears undisturbed. Ian tosses Debbie onto the bed, snatches the watch from the nightstand, and turns off the alarm.

Debbie finally wriggles out of her towel prison and throws her arms wide, enjoying her freedom.

Just as Ian’s taking out his pills, his phone starts ringing. “Tell Mickey I’m in the shower, huh?” he says with some annoyance.

Debbie nods as she watches him toss a handful of pills in his mouth and wander into the bathroom for a glass of water.

She answers the phone. “Hello?”

“The fuck’s Ian?”

“The bathroom." 

“Well, put him on.”

Debbie rolls her eyes. “He’s In. The. Bathroom.”

“He sick?”

“No.”

“Taking a shit?”

“Ew. No. He’s taking a shower.”

Ian slams the bathroom door, and Debbie hears the shower water start running.

“Listen,” Mickey says, bringing his voice down to a whisper, “He’s got some pills he’s supposed to take at eight.”

“He already took them.”

“He did?”

“Yeah.”

Someone starts screaming something in Russian in the background. Mickey shouts something back at them before he returns to Debbie. “All right, that’s good,” he says.

Debbie waits to see if Mickey’s going to say anything else or if she can go already. 

“Hey, uh, listen,” he says after some hesitation, “He seem all right to you?”

Debbie lays back into the mattress and frowns. It must be a drag for Ian to have everybody always so focused on this now. He must hate it so much. But then she feels sort of sorry for Mickey too because it’s the first night Ian’s spent apart from him in months, and Mickey’s probably extra nervous.

“He’s been fine,” she assures him.

“Yeah, all right,” Mickey says. “Tell Fuckhead to call me when he’s done jerking off.”

Mickey hangs up then, and Debbie tosses the phone onto the bed. She is finally feeling the residual exhaustion from her earlier panic; her arms and legs feel like noodles, and her head is pounding. She yanks up the blankets over her still-damp pajamas and sinks into the deliciously soft pillows. She allows herself to drift off into a light sleep, enjoying the last little bit of her first-ever hotel experience.

She wakes a few minutes later when she hears the message notification on her phone. She slaps at the nightstand with her hand until she finds the phone and glances at it. It’s a message from Matty.

Debbie doesn’t bother to unlock the phone to read it. Instead she tosses it over by Ian’s phone and burrows back under the covers. Matty can damn well wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, and feedback are greatly appreciated!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [ Zebra Wallpaper](http://zebrawallpaper.tumblr.com)


	7. You Kissed Me and Stopped Me From Shaking

The house is so quiet these mornings, and Debbie still hasn't gotten used to it. School's been out for a while now, and usually summer is when the Gallagher house feels bursting at the seams with people. This summer's been completely different, though. As Debbie sits at the counter drinking her coffee, there's no one else in the house, not a soul out on the street, not even any homeless men cleaning themselves in the pool. She doesn't know if she could ever possibly get used to this.

Debbie nearly jumps out of her skin as she gets a message notification. She wipes up the dribbled coffee with a discarded napkin and reaches for the phone. It's a text from Lip:

_Liam get off okay?_

Debbie rolls her eyes and sips her coffee for another minute before bothering to respond. Carl's been in charge of dropping Liam off for weeks now, yet Lip keeps texting Debbie every morning to make sure Carl's done it. She's getting a little sick of it. It was Lip's choice to stay on at school and take summer classes. If he chooses not to be at home, he should get used to the idea that he needs to start trusting the rest of them to keep the show running. But Lip always wants everything. Being in charge without having any responsibility would be his ideal. He doesn't seem to get the fact that this is not actually possible.

When she decides it's better to text Lip back before he texts her again, demanding to know why she's yet to respond, Debbie types a hasty reply:

_Nobody here so I assume so._

She's not sure if the bitchy, sarcastic tone she was going for has come across, but it will have to do. She tosses her phone and Lip's stupid dad routine into her backpack and heads out to catch her train.

On her way to the station, Debbie passes the pancake house where Fiona's taken a second job working the morning breakfast rush. Debbie waves at her through the window, but Fiona doesn't see her, and Debbie needs to keep moving; if she ends up having to wait for the next train, she's going to be late.

When she gets into the crowded train car, jammed between all the Loop commuters she not so long ago viewed as aliens but now views as the normal crowd, Debbie sends Carl a text:

_Liam get to school okay?_

She has to be the one to text Carl because Carl's not speaking to Lip currently. Lip freaked out when Carl mentioned signing up for ROTC in the fall, and then that turned into Lip blaming Carl's friendship with Mickey somehow. And that was it, as far as Carl was concerned. He's been actively ignoring Lip ever since.

"Better he's hanging out with Mickey than with Frank," Debbie heard Fiona tell Lip, though that didn't seem to appease him.

"You don't see any sorta similarity here?" Lip had said to Fiona, "This Army nonsense and hanging out with fucking Mickey Milkovich? The sneaking around, not telling us where he's been all the time, keeping secrets? And now the silent treatment? You don't, uh, notice anything familiar?"

"I see him holding down his job, staying out of trouble, and helping me out with Liam. Jesus, Lip, if Carl wants to try and be the second coming of Ian, I'm not complainin'."

"So when he comes home a couple years from now with his legs and hands blown off in some bullshit military intervention, you won't be complainin' either?"

Fiona had put her hands up in exasperation. "Ian says he doesn't think Carl's gonna stick with the ROTC anyway. He says if he makes the football team, he'll probably drop it."

"Yeah.  _Ian says_. Fuck."

And that had been the end of the conversation.

Debbie's pretty sure Lip's anger is less about Mickey or the ROTC than about Lip being afraid of losing Carl the way he feels like he's lost Ian. Lip blames Mickey for that, and the Army, and Ian. The only person Lip hasn't really gotten around to blaming yet is himself. But that's Lip.

Then Carl texts Debbie back:

_Yah_

Debbie grabs an open seat as it becomes available and texts back:

_Working today or you picking him up?_

Carl's got a part-time gig as a busboy at Fiona's diner, but Debbie cannot for the life of her keep track of what nights he works and what nights he doesn't.

_Work. Sammi will._

Debbie puts her phone away, satisfied that now at least she'll have an answer when Lip inevitably texts her tonight to find out who's picking up Liam. Liam winning the lottery for a spot in the Head Start year-round pilot program has been great—he's probably the first Gallagher to ever win anything—but it's been a bit of a headache keeping track of who's available to drop him off and pick him up on various days. With Fiona's second job and new boyfriend (boyfriends? No one can keep track), it's kind of fallen on Debbie to make sure things go smoothly, even though Lip thinks he's the one doing that. It's not really that big of a deal, just kind of annoying sometimes. And Carl's been a huge help, surprisingly. It sort of feels like all Carl ever needed to start behaving responsibly was to be given actual responsibilities.

Debbie hauls her backpack up into her lap as the woman sitting beside her gets off and some big dude slides in to take her place. Debbie studiously avoids eye contact and gazes out the window as the train winds its way through the Loop and continues heading north. Most of the commuters get off before the train leaves the Loop, and almost nobody gets on. Few people are leaving the Loop during morning rush hour.

Debbie gets a text from Matty then:

_Have fun at work, pretty girl!_

She frowns and texts back unenthusiastically:

_Thanx_

For some reason lately, Matty's texts haven't been exciting her the way they did before. Maybe she's just gotten used to them. Maybe she's just gotten a little bored with Matty. All they ever do are the same things over and over again.

But she doesn't want to think about Matty right now. Instead she concentrates on running through the schedule for today. Breakfast then Tumbling then Swim Lessons then Lunch then an hour of Free Play then the tutor comes then go to the library to return last week's books and pick out more then back to the house for dinner, the girls get Screen Time while Debbie cooks, then Elisa gets home.

Debbie's been working for Elisa since school got out. She's the sister of someone Ian knows from work, and when Ian heard Elisa's nanny had bailed for the summer, he volunteered Debbie for the job. At first Debbie was annoyed at Ian for being so pushy and insistent (she may or may not have yelled at him, and said something overdramatic about not being everybody's baby slave), but it's actually worked out. Watching two kids is a lot easier than watching a dozen and, with Elisa covering all the expense of food and travel, Debbie's making almost as much as she did with the Gallagher daycare.

Debbie hops off at Fullerton and hustles to the quiet, tree-lined street where Elisa's graystone is. It's been kind of weird working up here; Debbie's never spent this much time surrounded by so many rich people. It's a bit like stepping into a movie, the kind that Debbie always flips past on the TV. Everybody around here has really nice hair and shoes and clothes. They all live in houses made from huge blocks of limestone with big chandeliers visible in the glass transoms over their front double doors. The kids in the neighborhood have names like Piper and Kendall and Esme, attend a mind-boggling amount of activities, and aren't allowed to eat sugar or Cheetos. It's a very strange world.

At first Debbie hated all this. She felt self-conscious and shabby all that time, like people could just look at her and know she's Southside trash, all her family's troubles written clearly in her cheap clothes and broken backpack. But, gradually, she's come to not mind it so much. People are generally nice, and it's pleasant to disappear into this movie world for eight hours everyday where everything's catalogue-pretty, and there isn't a lot of drama

The nanny for the kids next door nods hello as Debbie waves and heads up the steps of Elisa's house. She grabs the paper as she does so—Elisa gets the New York Times delivered. Why the hell you would get a newspaper from another city delivered to your doorstep every day is beyond Debbie's comprehension. Then again, she's come to learn that rich people spend money on all sorts of stupid stuff.

The girls cheer as Debbie lets herself in with her key, and Elisa shouts a grateful greeting from her office.

Debbie smiles as she leads her pajama-clad charges into the kitchen, a gleaming white chamber of marble twice the size of the Gallagher's living room, and she starts pulling out supplies to make breakfast.

The girls are chattering happily about the day's plans, and Debbie nods along as she puts together their organic oatmeal and blueberries.

Elisa passes through with a stack of rubber-banded manila folders under her arm and gives the girls each a quick kiss goodbye. Before she heads out, though, she pauses to lay a couple of glossy DePaul University brochures on the counter beside Debbie.

"No pressure," Elisa says brightly, "Just wanted to give you some info on those scholarships we were discussing the other day."

Debbie smiles uncomfortably and nods. "Um, thanks."

"Okay, guys," Elisa says, "Be good for Debbie."

After Elisa has gone, Debbie pushes the brochures away on the smooth countertop and ignores them. "Who wants brown sugar?" she asks.

* * *

 

Maybe the reason she's less into Matty these days is because of Joaquin at the pool. He's younger than the other swim instructors, who are mostly broad-shouldered eighteen and nineteen year old boys, and he's scrawnier too. But he has nice abs on his compact body and the most beautiful skin Debbie's ever seen. He's in charge of the youngest class of swimmers and while they're doing their bobs and adjusting to the temperature of the water, he always chats with Debbie.

She doesn't know why he talks to her. Perhaps it's because, like him, she's different from her co-workers. All the other nannies are either middle-aged South American women or DePaul and Loyola girls who spend most of their time on their iPads. Debbie felt incredibly awkward around them the first few days she came to the pool, but then Joaquin told her he liked her sun hat, and Debbie never thought twice again about the other nannies.

Today while the kids are bobbing, Debbie and Joaquin chat about their schools' football teams, even though Debbie doesn't know that much about it. Joaquin lives in Little Village, and their schools usually play each other a couple times a season.

"My brother might join the football team this year," Debbie says.

"Oh, yeah?" Joaquin smiles, "He a big guy?"

"No," Debbie says, "He's only gonna be a Freshman. My other brother says he'll be lucky to make second string on the JV team. But he likes smashing into people."

"Well, that helps," Joaquin replies with a laugh, then gives her a little nod as he returns his attention to his students. Debbie holds her book up as if to read it, but keeps her eyes firmly on Joaquin. He has an adorable ass.

Later, after the swim lesson is over and Debbie's leading her freshly dressed charges out from the changing room, Joaquin gives her a suave wave goodbye with a knowing smile that seems to imply they share some kind of secret. It makes Debbie's stomach get all light and goofy feeling all the way back to the house.

Once the girls are set up with their lunch (Debbie's gotten very good at making quinoa this summer—Sheila would be proud), she composes a text to Matty:

_Are we ever gonna fuck?_

She backspaces it away without sending it, though. Then she types:

_Are we ever gonna kiss at least?_

But she decides not to send that one either. She returns her phone to her backpack without sending anything. Then she picks up the brochures Elisa left for her earlier.

Despite the fact that she's Debbie's boss and occasionally does incomprehensible rich person things, Elisa's actually pretty decent. She insists most evenings on driving Debbie home, and they've spent a lot of time sitting in traffic, just talking. Debbie feels a bit guilty when she thinks about how easily she's opened up to Elisa, telling her about her family and some of things they've been through. It feels like a betrayal to her siblings, but it's just so nice to have somebody who seems interested in listening and asks questions like she really cares. Matty does that a little, but he's a guy, and it's just not the same thing. Talking to Elisa is kind of like having a real mom, or an aunt, or something, who's got her shit together and actually cares.

Elisa's mom was a drunk and her dad was never around and even though it's not the same thing, it makes Debbie feel like she's maybe not totally screwed. She looks at Elisa and the life she has—her nice husband, her nice house, her nice kids, her fancy job as a Dean of something or other at DePaul—and Debbie doesn't believe for a second she could have that. She's starting, however, to tentatively consider the possibility that she could maybe get a fraction of something like it for herself.

But that kind of hope is potentially heartbreaking; Debbie has learned this too many times. So she shoves it away, along with the brochures, in the bottom of her backpack and doesn't think about it again for the rest of the afternoon.

Debbie declines a ride home tonight because she's heading to Lakeview. Every two weeks, Ian has to be up at Northwestern Memorial for some sort of appointment (Ian doesn't elaborate on what the appointment is; Debbie doesn't ask), and it's become a bit of a thing that he meets up with Debbie afterward. She's not sure why he's started doing this with her, why they can't just meet at the Milkoviches' house, but Ian seems to like having an excuse to hang out around up here again. He's said several times that he doesn't miss working at the club, but Debbie suspects he misses spending time in Lakeview. She can see it in the way he takes her someplace different each time, like he's introducing her to a world he really wants her to love as much as he does. At first she didn't get it, just thought he was overly infatuated with all these stupid rich people, but she's slowly starting to see the appeal. It's an intoxicating fantasy, pretending like you belong here. And Ian, unlike Debbie, easily passes for one of them.

Tonight, they're meeting at some pub place that looks like The Alibi Room if you cleaned it up and put it in a Disney movie. Debbie grabs a table, orders a glass of water and scowls over her phone. She's got a text from Lip asking who's picking up Liam tonight, three emails from Matty about some music he wants to send her, a text from Fiona telling Debbie to pick up toilet paper and milk on her way home, and a missed call from Matty who was probably trying to catch her on his break. She responds to Lip so he'll leave her alone, but ignores the rest. She considers reading her book until Ian arrives, but then she spots the brochures and pulls them out, handling them gingerly, like ancient documents.

These brochures are a little bit different than the info Elisa's gotten her previously—print-outs and pamphlets about Medical Assistant Certification at Malcolm X, the BSN program at UIC, Early Childhood Ed at Northeastern ("Academics are pushers," Elisa has joked). The DePaul brochures, some focusing on scholarships, some on programs of study, are less practically-oriented, selling the leafy, preppy Lincoln Park lifestyle as much as anything else. Debbie rolls her eyes, thinking about all the DePaul girls who nanny at the pool. Then she is surprised as she finds a brochure from the law school in the stack with a Post-It note stuck to the front. On the yellow paper, Elisa's written:  _Possible long-term goal: family law?_

Debbie blinks at the note, processing what it means. Then suddenly she is angry. She roughly piles the brochures up, burying the law school one in the stack, and shoves them back into her bag. She kicks it under the table for good measure.  _Fuck that. Fuck everybody._

Ian has the poor timing to show up just then. He looks slim and inconsequential in his drab janitor's uniform but still manages to turn heads as he makes his way through the pub. Debbie glares at him. It's annoying having three older siblings the world has decided are gorgeous, especially when the world has pretty much let you know from day one that you're, at best, cute in an awkward kind of way. With Ian it's somehow even more annoying because he used to be awkward too, but then one day he woke up handsome. Debbie's been waiting for the same transformation to occur since they look the most alike but, as of yet, she's still as inelegant and round-faced as ever. And nobody takes you seriously when you've got a round face.

"What's wrong?" Ian asks as he sits down, his smile fading at the sight of her sour expression.

"Nothing," she mutters, "I'm just sick of everybody."

"Okay," Ian says with an easy nod. He steals a sip of her water since he doesn't have any yet. Then he slides an envelope of cash across the table.

This is the nominal reason why they've been meeting every other week. Each time he gives her the money, and her job is to parcel it out in small amounts into the squirrel fund over the course of the next two weeks. Fiona's told Ian flat-out that she won't accept any money from him, but he's found a work-around by laundering his contributions through Debbie. So far Fiona hasn't caught on, or at least hasn't said anything. Debbie thinks Fiona knows something's up, but is too attached to the rapidly filling can of money to voice her suspicions. It's starting to seem like the Gallaghers might actually squeak by despite the disastrous first half of the year, but there's still plenty of time to jinx it.

Debbie tucks the envelope into her purse and, with business concluded, listens as Ian tells her about a crazy guy on the train this morning who kept exposing himself while ranting about Richard Daley. Ian keeps laughing while telling the story, but Debbie really doesn't find it that funny. She's seen many genitals on the CTA.

"You want a drink?" Ian asks suddenly, cutting off his own story.

"No."

"I'll order it for you. They'll serve me."

"No," Debbie repeats, "I don't want a drink." He asked her the same thing last time. It's like he's trying too hard, the past couple times she's seen him, to be the cool older brother. She blames the North side. Up here it's like Ian's a brighter, less serious person, talkative and flirting with waitstaff (to get better service, he claims). Debbie wishes she actually got to see him at home sometimes, or even at Mickey's, where he'd act more like himself, but the family's barely seen him at all this summer. Nobody's schedules ever seem to match up anymore. So Debbie supposes she should be grateful for these meet-ups, but they're more annoying than anything. She can't stand whatever act this is he's putting on.

The waitress takes their order then. It's an effort on Debbie's part not to roll her eyes as Ian flirts with the woman—it's so embarrassing to watch. He's not even good at it, but everybody always responds like he's Zac Efron, or something. Debbie wants to tell all these people that Ian is a dork. He used to have frizzy hair and chubby cheeks and so many freckles that his fifth grade teacher kept sending home notes chastising his parents for sending him to school with a dirty face. She wants to tell them how he was kicked out of the Cub Scouts for having lice or how, when he was twelve, Lip punched him while they were roughhousing in the city pool, Ian puked, and the pool had to be evacuated for the rest of the day. Siblings are like archivists of the embarrassing stuff.

"Why do you have to do that?" Debbie asks after the waitress has left.

Ian shrugs. "How's work? How's Peter's sister?"

"She's a bitch," Debbie replies and immediately feels guilty because she knows it's not true.

Ian looks disappointed. "I thought you liked the job."

Debbie feels even worse. "I do. It's fine. Elisa asked me to stay on in the Fall and work after school."

"Is that good?"

"Yeah," Debbie says, "I guess. We could use the money for sure."

"Do you guys need more money?" Ian asks and Debbie gets the impression that if she asked him right now to go out and knock over a bank for them, he would.

"We always need more money."

Ian nods. "I'll see what I can do. Might be able to get some overtime, but they're stingy about it if you don't have seniority. Maybe I can work out something else."

"Whatever," she says. Debbie toys with the straw in her water glass. She puts her finger over the top, watches the water fill up most of the straw, then picks it up, removes her finger, and lets the water fall back into the glass. Then a thought occurs to her for the first time after all these weeks. "Mickey doesn't know you're giving Fiona money, does he?"

Ian looks like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but then a smile blooms on his face, and he says, "Mickey worries too much."

Debbie knows that some people are compulsive liars—Fiona's accused Frank of being one for years, of being unable to stop telling lies even when there's no reason for them. Now she wonders if, along the same lines, some people are just compulsive secret keepers.

A message dings on Ian's phone and he replies to it, frowning as he types a really long response. Debbie sits back in her chair and gazes out at the other customers. She wonders if Joaquin ever hangs around up here after work, or if he just goes home. Then she starts thinking about their conversation today, about their schools' football teams. Maybe Debbie should start attending some games in the fall. Maybe she'd run into Joaquin if she did, have a chance to talk to him for more than five minutes. But then she sighs. Summer is like an alternate universe. You talk to people and befriend people in summer that you never would were it the school year and were you in your normal social order. How many times has Debbie thought kids were her friends after summer bonding, only to be treated as if they didn't know her come Fall? She's pretty sure if all the people from his school were at the pool, Joaquin would never talk to her.

"I got a favor to ask," Ian says when he finally puts away his phone, "You think you could get a hold of Fiona's old GED workbooks for me? Without anybody noticing?"

"You're getting a GED?" Debbie asks, doing nothing to hide her surprise.

"Nah, it's for Mickey."

" _Mickey's_  getting a GED?"

Ian smiles that funny, shy smile he only wears when he's talking about Mickey. "Yeah," he says, "Guess he saw what I've got going and wants some of that for himself. You don't really get sick days or dental insurance when you're a pimp."

Debbie begrudgingly has to admit that the job hasn't been the sad dead end she'd thought it would be for Ian. The job itself might be nothing special, but the paycheck and the benefits seem to have done a world of good. There's big, obvious stuff, like removing the burden of going broke from Ian's medical bills, or the fact that he was finally able to replace the tooth he lost last year. But there's little benefits to the job that seem to have been really good for him too. He works out at the campus rec center, of course, is signed up to run in the University's 5k at the end of the summer, and even took Fiona out on a "date" to see a campus theatre performance a month back since he was entitled to free tickets. Fiona joked the other day that Ian's getting more out of Chicago Poly Tech than Lip is.

"So, why's he need a GED then?" Debbie asks, "You got your job without one."

Ian looks confused. "No, I didn't."

"What?"

"I didn't. I had to get my GED before I could apply."

Debbie just stares at him, unable to speak for a second. "So, wait…" she says, "You have your GED?"

He seems puzzled by her continued bewilderment about this. "Yeah. I took it when I knew I was gonna be applying for this job. It wasn't a big deal."

Debbie's eyes are drawn to Ian's stupid long fingers tapping out a rhythm on the side of his water glass.

"Stop that," she commands. Obediently, he returns his hand to his lap.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Debbie asks when she has processed this new information, "Why didn't you tell Fiona? Or Lip?"

"No one asked."

Debbie glares at him.

Ian laughs. "Sorry."

"It's not funny."

Ian shrugs again, somewhat contrite. He looks away and says, "Not like it's anybody's business."

Debbie opens her mouth to read him the riot act about keeping so many stupid, pointless secrets, but is interrupted as the waitress brings their food. By the time they've undone their napkins and flatware and handed each other condiments from their respective sides of the table (Ian wanted the pepper grinder, Debbie wanted the ketchup), Debbie's temper has cooled. She's still royally annoyed with her brother, though.

"I can't believe you pay money for that," she sneers, looking at Ian's salad. As far as she's concerned, he could just be eating the lettuce and tomato that come on top of her sandwich and be getting the same thing for free.

"Had to skip the gym today," he explains, pouring some vinaigrette from the little cup over the top of the greens.

Debbie just shakes her head and unscrews the ketchup bottle. If what Mickey told Carl is to believed, Ian's been hitting the gym every morning before work, on every lunch hour, and again after work most days. Carl had been impressed, but Debbie thinks it's stupid. She jiggles and hits the ketchup bottle several times, but nothing comes out. She reaches for her knife, but Ian stops her and takes the bottle.

"Here," he says, turning it and pointing at a small '57' raised in the glass near the spot the bottle body meets the neck, "See that?"

Debbie nods then watches as Ian does a quick chop that hits the bottle exactly on the glass 57. The perfect amount of ketchup plops out over her fries. Ian smiles and hands her back the bottle. Somehow Ian always knows little tricks like that.

They eat for a while and don't bother talking. Debbie's mood improves as she gets something in her stomach. She always eats light at Elisa's house because, even though Elisa's stressed over and over again that Debbie should help herself to anything she wants, Debbie feels weird about it. For a while she packed and brought her own lunch, but the kids went wild with jealousy over Debbie's peanutbutter sandwiches and Doritos, so now she just has a little of whatever she makes for the kids and waits to eat until she gets home.

As she finishes her sandwich, she looks across at Ian and notices he's doing the same thing with his straw that she had done earlier, drawing up water into the straw with the pressure of his fingertip and then letting it drop. She tries to remember if it was something she picked up from him when they were younger, or if this is something they just both happen to do.

"So, is Mickey gonna get to be in the union too?" she asks.

Ian doesn't take his eyes from the straw. "What union?"

"The janitor union."

Ian laughs. "Mickey would be a terrible janitor."

"I thought that was why he's getting a GED. So he can work with you."

Ian's still smiling at the thought of Mickey as a janitor. It takes him a second to return his attention to Debbie's question and another second apparently to figure out what the heck she's talking about. Then he says, "Nah, he doesn't want to work with me. He just wants to be able to apply for something that's not, you know, moving furniture or tarring parking lots."

"Oh," Debbie says. She drags a fry through her ketchup while she thinks. Matty's supposed to only work a half-shift tonight, which means he might be off early enough to see her for a bit before bed. She hadn't been planning to see him tonight, but now she's finding herself wanting to be around someone from whom she knows exactly what to expect. She doesn't want to think about Joaquin or Elisa or stupid DePaul and Loyola girls or anyone else from up here. She's tired of this strange, glossy world. She wants comfort and familiarity. If Matty's nothing else, he is comfortably familiar.

Ian's watching people walking by outside the window with an oddly blank expression on his face, like he's seeing them, but his thoughts are a million miles away. Then he says almost dreamily, "Wouldn't you love to live up here?"

Debbie makes a face. "Why would I ever want to live up here?"

Ian tilts his head, eyes still following the pedestrians and taxicabs. "If you were going to school, or something. Couple years from now, maybe. I could see you liking it up here."

Debbie crumples up her napkin and tosses it onto her plate. She is done with dinner. She is done with everyone today. "Why don't  _you_  go to school up here? You can do that now, right? Apply to college with your secret GED?"

Ian turns back from the window, but he doesn't answer her questions. Instead he says, "I like my job. Think I wanna hold onto it for a while."

"Great," Debbie replies unenthusiastically.

The waitress returns to take their dishes and drop off the check. After she leaves, and Ian opens the portfolio with the bill, he laughs. "She gave me her number."

"Wow," Debbie deadpans, gathering up her things, "Sure Mickey'll think that's a riot."

"You leaving?" he asks as she stands and pulls on her backpack.

"Yeah."

"Thought we'd ride back down together."

"I'm going to Matty's."

"Oh." He seems at a loss, but then puts on a smile. "Well, it was good seeing you."

"Yeah," Debbie lies, "You too."

"See you in two weeks? If not before?"

"Sure. See ya."

"Bye, Debs," Ian says as she walks away. She doesn't look back.

* * *

 

A few days later Debbie has Elisa take her to the Milkovich house instead of the Gallaghers'. Elisa pulls her Mercedes onto the block and Debbie becomes acutely aware of how bad everything looks. There's garbage, miscellaneous debris, and abandoned furniture in the vacant lot beside the Milkovich house, the El rattling on the tracks above. The house next door to the Milkoviches has been condemned—there's plywood over the windows and an orange notice nailed to the door. A shirtless man is napping in a broken lawn chair across the street, and there's a mangy-looking stray dog that starts barking aggressively at their car when they pull up.

"Are you sure this is where you want me to drop you off?" Elisa asks, being careful, Debbie can tell, to keep her tone evenly modulated and not let on her discomfort.

"Yeah," Debbie says, "This is where my brother lives with his boyfr—husband."

Elisa glances at the house skeptically. "Do you want me to wait for you? You're just dropping something off? I can take you home right after. It's not a problem at all."

"No, it's fine," Debbie replies, finding herself growing hot with embarrassment. She lets herself out of the car in a hurry, eager to cut off the conversation before it can continue any further. "Thanks for the ride."

Elisa remains idling at the curb as Debbie makes her way to the front door of the Milkovich house. She raps hard on the door, eager to get inside so she can make Elisa go away and stop watching her. She has to knock again before Mickey finally throws open the door.

He doesn't acknowledge Debbie; instead, he peers over her shoulder at the Mercedes and scowls. "Who the fuck's that?"

"My boss. Can you please let me in so she'll go away? She's waiting to make sure I get in safe."

Mickey shakes his head at the idiocy of humanity and steps aside. Debbie gives a quick wave to Elisa to let her know everything's okay and then ducks inside gratefully.

She follows Mickey back to the kitchen, passing one of his brothers (cousins?) passed out on the couch and Svetlana fussing over Yevgeny beside him. Svetlana gives her a slight nod of acknowledgement, and Debbie smiles at her and the baby. Yevgeny's gotten so big; Ian's said he's already crawling and gnawing on everything he can get his mouth on. Debbie wonders if they've done any sort of baby-proofing, and she shudders slightly, remembering how Liam once licked a socket when Lip and Ian were babysitting.

In the kitchen, Mickey returns his attention to the stove where he's frying up some kind of sausage cut into medallions. Another pan contains something that looks like sauerkraut, though Debbie's not certain. It all smells good, though.

"My brother here?" Debbie asks, carefully staying out of Mickey's way as he stirs the sausage, sending up flecks of hot grease.

"Which one?"

"Ian."

"Not home yet."

"Oh. Well, he wanted me to drop something off. Can I just give it to you?"

Mickey shrugs.

Debbie sets her backpack down between her feet and digs out Fiona's old GED workbooks. She puts them on the table, and Mickey leans over from the stove to get a look at what the books are.

"The hell's that for? He already passed that shit. Didn't need no  _Practice and Prep_ ," he says, reading off the cover with disdain.

"It's not for him. It's for you."

Mickey sets the spatula down hard on the stove and turns to face her with a hand on his hip. He seems about to say something, but instead he just rolls his lips under and shakes his head. "Ian and his fucking plans," he mutters, returning his attention to the stovetop. He mutters more under his breath that Debbie can't decipher, then he says, "Was he always like that?"

"Pretty much." She takes a seat at the table without being invited to and flips through one of the workbooks with mild interest. "Why wouldn't you just take it?" she asks, "Ian said it was easy."

"Easy for Ian ain't necessarily easy for the rest of us." Mickey shuts off the gas and begins draining the grease from the sausage pan into an old coffee canister.

"Ian's not  _that_  smart," Debbie says, thinking about how she and Lip have always gotten way better grades than Ian, even though he always tried harder than either of them. The only classes she can remember him getting A's in were English and Gym. Otherwise, he was pretty much a straight-C student, no matter how much he studied. Lip used to give him a hard time about it, telling Ian that he was walking proof that all the work ethic in the world can't grow native intelligence so he shouldn't stress himself out about it. It didn't stop Ian from studying, though, or signing up for increasingly difficult classes. Ian is a stubborn shit.

"Smarter than you think," Mickey remarks as he tucks the grease can back under the sink and attends to the sauerkraut-looking stuff, "Your other brother too."

"We all know Lip's smart," Debbie replies snottily. No one ever points out that  _she's_  smart. She may not be a genius, but her grades are just as good as Lip's ever were.

"Not Lip. Fuck Lip," Mickey scowls, "Carl."

Debbie gives Mickey and incredulous look. "Carl's only going to high school 'cause the middle school principal doesn't want to deal with him anymore."

"See? Solution to a problem," Mickey cuts a straight line through the air with his hand, "How do you get to high school? Piss 'em off so much they send you there themselves. Shortest distance between two points and all that shit. That's how your brother thinks. Valuable fuckin' skill. He don't get caught up on all that wishy-washy shit like the rest of you."

Debbie rolls her eyes. Only Mickey would think Carl's problem-solving skills were something to be praised. It's funny hearing Mickey talk like this, though. According to Carl, Mickey never shuts up. Debbie figured that seeing this in action was a privilege—if you could call it that—that only Carl had earned since he and Mickey spend so much time hanging out. Apparently, Debbie's been admitted past some threshold, though, where Mickey feels free to yak at her. And about her family, like he's some expert on Gallaghers, or something.

Mickey takes a stack of melamine plates from the cabinet and lays them out. Then he starts doling out portions of sausage and the sauerkraut stuff. He continues his tangent:

"Only thing smart about Lip is that he finally fuckin' woke up and took what those colleges were offering him. Sure dicked around about it long enough, though. Man, did that piss your brother off."

"Carl?" Debbie asks, confused. She doesn't remember Carl being especially pissed off that Lip wasn't applying to college. All Carl wanted was Lip to come home and for there to be peace in the boys' room.

" _Ian_ ," Mickey corrects her, giving her a look that seems to say she is the stupidest person who has ever walked the Earth. As if she should just know that his thoughts have re-centered on Ian. "Had to hear him bitch about it for ages. You know how much he would've killed for a ticket out like that?"

Debbie doesn't say anything. They all would kill for a ticket out like Lip has.

Mickey starts laying the plates down around the table. "Hey!" he calls out to the other room, "Food! Now or never!"

Debbie's surprised when Mickey sets a plate in front of her before he goes to fetch himself a beer. Apparently, Debbie's invited for dinner. She takes a tentative bite of sausage. It's greasy but good.

Svetlana comes in sans Yevgeny and takes a seat. She pages through one of the workbooks with one hand while she eats with the other.

"He not coming in?" Mickey asks her, referring to his brother/possible cousin.

Svetlana waves his question off. "He is passed out. He snooze, he lose."

Mickey frowns and makes his way into the living room, presumably to wake him up, but Ian comes through the front door just then and pounces on him. Debbie cranes her neck to get a view into the living room. Ian's got Mickey pinned against a wall and appears to be bombarding him with kisses and love bites.

"Hey,  _husband_ ," he says, "Hey, better half. Hey, ball and chain."

Mickey is trying not to smile but failing. Debbie's never seen him look like that. She's never seen Ian like this either. He looks…carefree.

"All right, all right,  _husband_ ," Mickey says, pushing Ian off gently, "Hold off a bit, huh? Your kid sister's here."

At the mention of herself, Debbie sits back in her chair so they don't turn and see that she's been spying. Svetlana shakes her head at Debbie and mutters something in Russian.

"Debs!" Ian greets her as he and Mickey come into the kitchen, "You here for dinner?" He snatches a piece of sausage from the frying pan and pops it in his mouth.

"Use a plate," Mickey scolds him, "Fuckin' animal."

Ian grins and ignores Mickey, helping himself to another piece of sausage.

"I just came by to drop off Fiona's old workbooks," Debbie explains.

"Yeah, you wanna talk about that?" Mickey asks with annoyance as he takes another plate from the cabinet and shoves it at Ian.

"Not at the moment, no," Ian laughs. He sets the plate on the counter and eats another piece of sausage from the pan.

"Will you sit, please?" Mickey says. He takes Ian by the shoulder and physically sits him at the table. Then he puts his brother/cousin's untouched plate in front of him. "Eat your dinner."

Ian does as he is told. Mickey takes the seat beside him and for a while, they're all quiet, just eating their food.

"You watch Yevgeny tonight?" Svetlana asks Ian after a bit.

"Of course," he replies around a mouthful of the sauerkraut stuff, "Wanna keep me company, Debs?"

Debbie looks at him. His eyes are too bright, his smile too forced; he's brought his fake act home with him from Lakeview. Irritation tightens in her shoulders. "No," she replies, "I gotta get home to put Liam to bed."

"Okay," Ian nods and Debbie could swear that, for just one second, a bit of sadness or disappointment or something real and melancholy passes over his face. It's gone almost instantly, though, replaced with empty pleasantness.

As if he's sensed it instinctually, Mickey puts an arm behind Ian's back and gives his shoulder a little squeeze. Debbie notes the way Ian leans into the touch, but, just as quickly as it happened, the moment is gone.

"We need to go," Svetlana announces, standing up with her empty plate.

Mickey nods and follows her. "You clean up?" he asks Ian.

"Sure," Ian says as Mickey follows Svetlana out, "Don't worry about it."

"Want me to help?" Debbie offers as she gets up from the table and adds her empty plate to Mickey and Svetlana's stack.

"Nah," Ian says, "You better get home for Liam. It's just a couple dishes and pans."

"You guys should get a dishwasher," Debbie notes, thinking about Yevgeny and how he'll probably soon be producing the same constant supply of dirty bottles, sippy cups, kiddie plates and silverware that Liam does.

"That's an idea," Ian says, cocking his head as he looks at the sink, envisioning it.

"Svetlana'd appreciate it, I bet," Debbie says.

For some reason, this makes Ian laugh. Debbie is about to ask him what's so funny, but decides against it. Instead, she picks up her backpack and remarks as she looks over the messy kitchen, "I miss Mandy."

"Me too."

"You guys still don't know where she went?"

"Pretty sure Mickey does, but he's not saying."

"Why doesn't he go get her then?"

"I don't think she wants him to. Sometimes you just need a break, you know?"

Debbie isn't sure if she understands this or not, but she doesn't have a chance to say anything before Yevgeny starts wailing from the bedroom. Without a word, Ian goes to him.

Debbie remains in the kitchen a few minutes more. She puts the dishes in the sink, wraps up the left-over food, and puts some dish detergent and water over the dirty pans. In the other room, she faintly hears Ian half-singing/half-humming as he changes Yevgeny's diaper. "Oh, Mandy, you came and you gave without taking…hmmm hmmm hmmm…"

A memory instantly comes to Debbie then, from the time when Mandy was living with them. She was painting Debbie's nails a glittery dark blue on Ian's bed, while Ian did chin-ups on the bar attached to the boys' room doorframe. That 'Mandy' song had come on the radio and Mandy remarked that it was the song she was named after, that Terry Milkovich had a soft spot for Barry Manilow. Ian had started laughing so hard at the idea of this that he lost his grip and fell to the floor in a heap of giggles. The sight made both Debbie and Mandy crack up.

As she leaves the house, Debbie doesn't interrupt Ian to say goodbye. She just shows herself out glumly, mourning the fact that everybody has to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback is greatly appreciated. If you like, feel free to follow me on tumblr at [Zebra Wallpaper](http://zebrawallpaper.tumblr.com)


	8. The Girl in the Band

The two-week mark when Debbie and Ian should meet up again comes and goes without any word from Ian, but Debbie doesn't notice. The short conversations with Joaquin have progressed to the point where he's said on three different occasions now that he wishes they had more time to talk. Considering the possible intent and overtones of those words has occupied an embarrassing amount of Debbie's headspace. She's also been politely accepting more and more college literature from Elisa—she hasn't read any of it, but she hasn't thrown it out, either—and agreed to join her and keep an eye on the kids next week on a "working vacation" (whatever that means) at the family's beach house in Michigan. For some reason, Debbie hasn't told anybody about this yet; she doesn't want them to know that she's excited, and she really doesn't want to have to pretend that she's not. She's spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about all these things, though, and somehow time slipped by.

When she lets herself into the house one night and finds Ian playing Memory with Liam on the living room floor, she is surprised not only by his presence, but also at the realization of how much time has passed since she's seen him.

"Hey," Debbie greets them, tossing her backpack onto the couch.

"Hey," Ian replies, not taking his eyes off the cards on the carpet, "Aw, that's the canary. Wanna try again?"

"Where's Carl?" Debbie asks.

"Filling in for somebody."

"Oh." Debbie is momentarily miffed that the teachers at the preschool just let Ian take Liam home, even though they'd never met Ian before. He could have been a kidnapper. But then again, people always seem to assume that Ian's harmless. Must be his stupid Bambi face.

"It's the hippo! Good job, Li. You're so smart."

Debbie turns to head up to her room, but Ian grabs her ankle, startling her. When she looks down, he's holding out a wad of cash. She takes it, noting that it's quite a bit more than he's been giving her. "This is a lot," she says.

"I sold some stuff. My turn? Oh, look, it's the octopus. Now, where did I see the other one?"

"Cool," Debbie says, pocketing the money and heading up the stairs. In her room she puts in her ear buds and throws herself onto the bed. Matty's given her a bunch of new mp3's to listen to, and she texts him her thoughts about them as she skips through the various songs. She wishes Matty didn't have to work tonight. She's spent all day with little kids and knows Ian's gonna leave her with Liam soon enough, and she'd really like to invite Matty over to keep her company. Sometimes she gets tired of only talking to kids.

At some point, a few songs in, she realizes that someone is pounding on her door. Debbie pulls her ear buds out. "What?" she asks.

"Dinner," Ian replies.

Ian's made a frozen pizza, and overcooked it as always—he likes the cheese practically burnt—and the sides are all curled up. Still, it's nice to have something that isn't a re-heated, greasy leftover from the diner.

Debbie keeps her ear buds in while she eats, texting Matty with her other hand. One thing that's happened since she's been with Matty is that Debbie's a much more critical listener of music. At first the things Matty would say to her about different songs didn't make a lot of sense—how can a bass line be 'sultry'?—but she's starting to get it. As she types something about liking the 'chunky beat' of this song, she considers again Matty's offer to teach her to play guitar or drums. "It's so much cooler to be the girl  _in_  the band," he'd told her, "than the girl  _with_  the band." She'd brushed him off, embarrassed at the thought of trying and failing at something like that. But lately she's been thinking that, if Frank can play the piano, maybe she wouldn't be a total spazz at learning the drums.

Ian doesn't appear miffed by Debbie's disinterest at the dinner table; he's busy lavishing attention on Liam. Pretty much every chance he gets to spend with Liam these days, Ian soaks him up, as if trying to make up for all the Liam-less months with top quality minutes. Though tensions have thawed significantly between Fiona and Mickey, Fiona's still stuck hard to her rule about no Liam in the Milkovich house. And since Ian certainly hasn't been by the Gallagher house in ages, his Liam time remains fairly precious.

Debbie's surprised when, after they've finished off the pizza, Ian takes Liam upstairs for his bath. She doesn't question it, though, glad to have a night off from the task.

She cleans up the dishes, wipes down the table, and takes a couple chocolate chip cookies (Lip brought home an economy-sized box from school a few weeks back and they're getting stale but still fairly tasty) up with her to her room. She resumes listening to her Matty songs and catches up on Facebook while she waits for Ian to finish with Liam's bath then bring him to Debbie so she can put him to bed.

Everybody on Facebook's talking about some bonfire last night that Debbie wasn't invited to. There's pictures, and she hates every person in them. Then she checks out Joaquin's page. She hasn't worked up the nerve to friend request him yet, but it doesn't really matter because he's a dummy who leaves everything public. With sick horror, she realizes that he was at the bonfire too. He's tagged in a picture with Caitlin Czarnecki who's wearing a string bikini top and cut-offs. He's got his arm around her bare waist. Debbie stares at the photo until her eyes start to water. Then she yanks out her ear buds and throws her phone across the bed. Everything  _sucks_.

Her sulking is disturbed by something uncomfortable digging into her backside. It's the wad of cash Ian gave her that she'd shoved in her pocket. She takes it out now and glances at it. There's a fifty-dollar bill among the usual tens and fives. How the hell is she supposed to sneak that into the squirrel fund without Fiona noticing? Irritated, she stuffs the money between the mattress and the box spring, then goes to see what's up since Ian never brought Liam by after his bath.

She wanders down the hall, finding no one until she gets to the boys' room. Ian and Liam are both sound asleep in Ian's old bed. Ian's arm is draped over Liam protectively, face buried in Liam's curls. Liam's thumb is loosely set in his open mouth. He's taken to sucking his thumb again lately, which the doctor says is a regressive reaction to stress. How they aren't all inveterate thumb-suckers, Debbie doesn't know.

She steps forward to wake Ian up so he can go home, but she stumbles over a bag that's on the floor in front of the bed. It's Ian's Army kit bag, the one that has 'P. Gallagher' stenciled on the side that Debbie last saw when Ian and Monica were squatting in that abandoned house. She stares at the bag, a familiar knot forming in her stomach that she hasn't felt since that morning at the hotel a couple months back when he assured her there was nothing to worry about.

It's funny—she wanted Ian home and in his old bed for so long. She felt like everything could only be right again once that happened. But here he is right now, home to stay in his old bed for at least a couple days if that bag is any indication, and it doesn't feel right at all.

Debbie turns off the light as she leaves and returns to her own room. She changes into her pajamas, brushes her teeth, and goes to bed. Matty's probably not going to respond to any of her text messages until he gets off work at one, and, anyway, Debbie's exhausted. Then, of course, she just lies in the dark and thinks. About everything. She can never just turn her brain off when she wants to.

Around twelve-thirty, Debbie's just about drifting off to sleep when her phone starts vibrating. It says it's Ian calling, but when she picks it up, it's Mickey.

He doesn't even bother with a greeting when she answers the phone. He just says, "Please tell me Ian's with you."

"Yeah," she says, "He's here."

"Christ," he mutters and exhales deeply.

"Did you have a fight?" Debbie asks.

Mickey doesn't answer. He says, "Just…just don't tell him I called, all right?"

"Okay."

Debbie thinks Mickey's going to hang up then, but she can tell he's hesitating. "What?" she asks.

"Think you can check if he took his pills?"

Debbie closes her eyes and wonders why there's always more shit to be worried about. "How would I be able to tell?" she asks.

"If he's got his pill thing with him," Mickey says, "the one for today should be empty."

"Fine," Debbie says, "I'll text you."

"No. No. I don't want him to see any shit on his phone. Just check, all right? I'll wait."

Debbie stops herself from saying that the reason Ian left was probably because Mickey's really annoying. Instead, she says, "Whatever. Hang on."

She leaves the phone on the mattress and tiptoes down the dark hallway to the boys' room. Liam's star-shaped nightlight provides just enough illumination for her to see Ian's kit bag. She pauses and listens. Liam and Ian are both breathing deeply. Reassured that neither of them is awake, Debbie crouches down and crawls toward the bag.

But then she stops. This isn't right. Checking behind Ian's back to make sure he took his medicine means she doesn't trust him. And she does trust Ian.

Without touching the bag, she crawls back out to the hall and returns to her room. She retrieves the phone.

"Mickey?"

"Yeah?"

"He took them."

Mickey breathes a sigh of relief. "All right, uh, thanks," he says and hangs up.

Debbie sets her phone on the nightstand and gets back under the covers. Of course Ian took them, right? He promised her, swore up and down that he was never not going to do what he was supposed to do to stay healthy. Even if he doesn't care about doing it for himself, she knows he cares about doing it for them.

She jams her ear buds hard into her ears, forcing her thoughts to be drowned out by Matty's music. She pulls her blanket up over her head as additional sensory deprivation. Eventually she manages to fall into an exhausted sleep.

Sometime later, Debbie is awakened by Carl.

"What?" she snaps, feeling like she's only just fallen asleep even though it must have been at least an hour or two.

"Why's Ian here?"

"I don't know." She snatches up her pillow and turns her back to Carl, pulling the pillow over her head to ward off any further questions.

Carl must go away then because soon Debbie's back asleep. A short time later, though, she's being shaken awake again.

"Debbie?" Fiona whispers, "Debs?"

"What?" Debbie groans pathetically. This whole stupid night is not fair.

"Why's Ian here? Is everything all right?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself? God!"

"Hey," Fiona snaps, annoyed, "Sorry to disturb your beauty rest, Princess, but I'm trying to figure out if I've got another crisis on my hands."

Debbie's pretty sure that if handed an axe right now, she would happily murder them all. "I don't know why he's here, okay?" she says, "I think he's mad at Mickey. Can I go back to sleep now?"

Fiona's expression softens. "Lover's spat, huh? He seem all right?"

"He seemed fine. Okay? Can I sleep? Please?"

"Does Mickey know he's here?"

"Oh my  _god_. Yes. Mickey already bothered me. Then Carl. Now you. Okay? Is everybody done asking me to do everything now? 'Cause I have to get to sleep so I can wake up in three hours and go to my job where at least I get paid to do everything for everybody."

Fiona holds up her hands. "Pardon me."

Debbie throws back the covers and pushes herself out of bed.

"Where you going?" Fiona asks as Debbie stomps past her.

"Now I have to pee," Debbie replies, "Thanks a lot."

When she leaves the bathroom, though, Debbie doesn't return to her room. She stands in the open doorway of the boys' room and watches Ian and Liam sleeping for a moment. She turns slightly and, as she expected, Carl is sitting up in his bunk, watching them too. He gives Debbie a look that communicates all his worry without saying anything.

"Move over," Debbie says quietly, and climbs up to join him in his bunk.

* * *

Debbie wakes up when Carl smacks her in the face with his elbow.

"Ow!" she cries.

"Move!" he says, "I have to get up."

It had seemed like a very agreeable idea last night to share the bunk, the warmth of sleeping back to back like they did as kids quite comforting. Now, though, it feels like possibly the worst idea anyone has ever had. They're a lot bigger than they were as kids, for one thing, and the fact that Carl's bunk is now the top one means their elbows, knees, and heads keep smacking into the ceiling (and each other) as they struggle to extricate themselves from the knotted sheets.

Eventually, they both manage to throw themselves free from the bunk and head down to the kitchen. Debbie doesn't have to be up for another hour, but she's resigned herself to the truth that she is simply not going to get any more sleep while her dumb family is home.

"Seven beds in this house, and you guys cram four people into two twins? What is the matter with everybody?" Fiona says cheerfully as she pokes the straw into Liam's juice box.

They both ignore her. Carl digs a couple waffles out of the freezer and nods off on the counter while he waits for them to toast. Debbie just gets a cup of coffee and sits at the table, supporting her head with one hand. It hurts to blink.

Ian comes down from the bathroom then, dressed in his janitor uniform and smelling of hair gel and aftershave.

"Nice seein' you in your old bed," Fiona greets him, sticking with her resolutely upbeat tenor, "Got a little sentimental when I saw you there."

Ian just grunts and pours himself a cup of coffee.

Carl perks up with Ian present. "Don't you have to go to the gym before work?" Carl asks.

Ian shakes his head.

"I thought you were going  _after_  work these days," Fiona says, determined to get some kind of pleasant conversation going this morning.

"He goes before work, after work,  _and_  on his lunch hour," Carl informs her with pride in his voice, as if it is Carl's own accomplishment. His tone is familiar to Debbie; it's the same one Mickey's voice takes on when he's talking about Ian. Carl's definitely been spending too much time with Mickey.

"Three times a day?" Fiona asks, still smiling as if her life depended on keeping everything light this morning, "Isn't that a little excessive?"

Ian doesn't respond to that, just leans against the sink and sips his coffee.

Carl's waffles pop from the toaster. He folds one up and shoves it whole into his mouth, then tilts his head back and squeezes syrup into his open mouth.

"You're disgusting," Debbie says.

Carl ignores her and proceeds to eat his second waffle in the same fashion. Then he turns to Fiona and Liam and says with his mouth full, "He better be ready to go in five minutes."

Fiona nods as Carl barrels up the stairs to get ready.

"Heard something interesting about you yesterday," Fiona says to Ian as she brings Liam to the sink and wets a dishcloth to wipe his face down.

Ian moves over slightly to give Fiona room, but he doesn't respond to her bait.

"Ran into my old track coach at the diner," Fiona continues, "Says you're gonna be some sorta part-time assistant coach in the fall?"

Ian's expression remains like stone.

"You weren't gonna tell me about that?"

Ian closes his eyes and says quietly, "I went to talk to my old ROTC leader to see if he could pull any strings with the football coach to get Carl on the team. He asked if I'd do a favor for him and help out the girl's track coach 'cause she's his girlfriend."

"Oh," Fiona says. She sets Liam down and wipes his hands with the dishcloth, "Just weekend meets? That sorta thing?"

"Two evenings a week plus Saturday meets. Forget it, though. I'm not doing it. I don't know why I agreed to. Just thought we could use the money."

"You and Mickey hurting that bad for cash? We can probably help you out a little. "

"No. Forget it. I'm not doing it."

"It's not the worst idea," Fiona says. Then she teases, "The girls would love you."

"Just forget it."

"You just gotta be careful not to overschedule yourself," Fiona says, "Too much stress isn't good. You know that."

"You're gonna work at  _my_  school now too?" Debbie asks, unable to contain her bewilderment as she sleepily reaches this realization.

"I'm not doing it," he says sharply, "Jesus. Why doesn't everybody just get off my ass and mind their own business?"

Fiona squats down and straightens Liam's shirt. She takes much longer to do this than she needs to, and Debbie can tell she's building up to saying something Ian's not going to like. "You feeling okay these days?" Fiona asks Ian cautiously, keeping her attention on Liam, using him as a shield behind the shot she has just fired.

Ian slams down his coffee cup. "I'm allowed to be in a fucking bad mood without it having anything to do with being crazy, okay? Jesus Fucking Christ."

"I was just asking," Fiona says, her low voice making Ian's outburst feel even louder by comparison.

"Well, stop asking," Ian says, still unwilling to bring his voice back down to its normal level, "Everybody needs to just leave me alone."

Carl clomps down the stairs then, oblivious to the tension in the room. "Liam ready to go?"

"I gotta go to work," Ian mumbles. He pays no attention to his mug or the spilled coffee on the counter, nor does he bid any of them goodbye. He just leaves.

Carl looks dismayed as he watches Ian go. "What'd you do to him?" he asks Fiona after Ian has gone.

"I didn't do anything. Tried to make conversation."

"What'd you say?"

"Nothing."

Carl gives her an exasperated glare that is so fiercely Mickey Milkovich that both Fiona and Debbie sit back slightly in horror. Then he shakes his head in silent judgment, takes Liam's hand and leads him out.

"I can't win," Fiona says as she mops up the spilled coffee with the same dishcloth she just used on Liam, "I don't ask questions, means I don't care. I do ask questions, and I'm a bitch."

Debbie squints at the coffee pot to see if there's anything left in it. "I think that was more about Mickey than you," she says.

Fiona dumps Ian's mug in the sink. "Any idea what the deal is with them?"

Debbie shrugs. She gets up to retrieve that last bit of coffee and passes the clock as she does so. "Don't you have to go?"

"Shit." Fiona tosses the dishcloth in the sink, grabs her purse and books it out the door.

Alone in the now-quiet house, Debbie sits on one of the bar stools and attempts to savor her coffee. The lack of sleep has left her brain feeling like it's throbbing inside her skull. She begins strategizing a way to find a quiet place to nap while her charges are at their ballet lesson.

Her phone buzzes. It's a message from Lip:

_Carl drop Liam off at school?_

Debbie puts her head down on the counter. "I hate you all," she mutters.

* * *

After Debbie passes through the turnstile and makes her way up to the platform, she is surprised to find Ian sitting on one of the benches. She removes her ear buds as she approaches him.

"Aren't you gonna be late?" she asks. Six or seven trains must have passed between the time he got here and the time Debbie did.

"Not going to the gym today. Should be all right."

"Oh." Debbie watches the pigeons roosting in the lights and waits for him to explain why he's here. He doesn't, though. He doesn't say anything. Then the train arrives and he gets on with her.

Debbie notes with some amusement the way Ian uses his body to block other passengers from pushing up against her in the crowded car. She wonders if he's doing it consciously, or if it's just second nature for all her older siblings to try and protect her any way they can. They always still think of Debbie as some vulnerable little girl. Most of the time this annoys her, but sometimes she doesn't mind.

They don't speak for the first couple stops, then as he gets shoved closer to her, Ian bends his head down and says, "Sorry I lost my temper."

"It's okay," Debbie replies, "It's not a big deal."

"No," he says, "I'm really sorry."

He looks far more remorseful than the situation merits.

"It's okay," Debbie repeats. Ian's hand is gripping the pole so hard that his knuckles are turning white. She notices then that he's not wearing his wedding band.

She spends the next few stops trying to think of something to say to him, wondering if she should say something at all. He seems shaken, despite his attempt to keep his expression stoic.

"I'm really sorry," he says again, so quiet that she at first doesn't realize he's said anything. He isn't looking at her as he speaks, his eyes fixed on the window where the backs of apartment buildings and warehouses speed by.

She starts to tell him again that it truly was not a big deal, but she's drowned out by the automated announcement. It's Ian's stop, and he gets off without saying anything to her or even acknowledging her, as if he's forgotten she's even here.

The look on his face haunts her as she makes her way up to Lincoln Park and into Elisa's sunny, pretty house. There was something more than regret or remorse in it, but she can't place it until she's putting together the girls' oatmeal: he's frightened.

"Hey," Elisa says, placing a hand on Debbie's shoulder, "Everything okay?"

For one second, Debbie considers telling Elisa everything. It would be such a relief to let it all out, to let someone else—someone kind and caring and capable—take on a bit of the burden of worry or, better yet, assure her that worry isn't even necessary here. Elisa already knows some of the story, though not much about Ian. Debbie's been careful not to say too much about him because Elisa's brother knows him. Elisa's never said how well her brother knows Ian, only that "Peter says he's just great," and Debbie hasn't wanted to say anything that might lead someone to start thinking that Ian's anything less than great. As long as someone still believes Ian to be perfect, in a way that means he still is.

"Yeah," Debbie assures her, "I'm just a little tired. I didn't sleep well last night."

"Oh, I've been there," Elisa says.

Debbie stretches a phony smile across her face, feeling the chasm between their worlds, big as ever.

* * *

The day barrels on, and Debbie is gladly distracted from the morning's worries. She takes the kids to their activities and, at the pool, she concentrates hard on reading her book and not acknowledging Joaquin. Eventually, her pretend interest becomes real interest, though. She is so engrossed in the plot that she doesn't even notice Joaquin standing over her until he says, "Hey."

Debbie looks up from under the brim of her hat. "Hey," she replies, cool as a cucumber.

"Lot of McKinley kids at the bonfire last night. Why didn't you go?"

It hits her suddenly that Joaquin has no idea what a loser she is. He has no idea that she didn't go because nobody told her about it or invited her because almost no one at school talks to her because of who her dad is and where she lives and what her sister did to her baby brother. He has no clue that Holly and Ellie are the only girls who hang out with her and that's just because they're both dumb as rocks and think they have a chance with Debbie's older brothers. Can he not look at her and in three seconds, just like everybody else, determine that she is an ugly nerd unworthy of even talking to?

Debbie shrugs. "I didn't feel like it."

Joaquin nods in agreement. "Yeah. It kinda sucked."

"I figured it would."

Joaquin glances back at his class; they're finishing up their bobs. "You going to Jason Lojewski's party on Saturday?" he asks.

Debbie acts as if she knows what he's talking about, shrugging again casually. "I don't know yet."

He starts reluctantly returning to his students, then turns around and calls back, "You should come."

"Maybe," Debbie replies and manages to save her smile until after he's back in the water.

* * *

Debbie's still riding on her Joaquin high when she gets a text from Matty later that afternoon:

_Come over when you get off. Got a surprise._

This is not exactly intriguing—Debbie's pretty certain his 'surprise' is just more music, or maybe a copy of a rare movie he's tracked down—but she heads to his place anyway once she's done for the day.

Matty has the biggest, stupidest grin on his face when he answers the door and it's contagious. Debbie can't help but smile back, even though she's cranky and tired and not the least bit excited about whatever his surprise is.

"Sit, sit, sit," he says, leading her to the couch, "Now close your eyes."

Debbie giggles and squeezes her eyes shut. She hears him remove something from the closet, then walk back over to her.

"You ready?" he asks.

"Sure."

"Ta-da!"

Debbie opens her eyes to find Matty is holding out a beat-up, yellowed white electric guitar. It's missing one of its knobs and has a half-torn-off sticker on the body that says FUGAZI. It is the ugliest instrument she's ever seen.

"W—wow," she fumbles, "Is that for me?"

Matty is one big smile as he nods proudly. "My friend's little brother traded it to me for that old practice amp I was going to sell. The second I saw it, I thought of you."

Debbie is at a loss for words but finally manages to say, "Thanks. That's…really cool."

"Want me to teach you some chords?"

"Okay."

Matty hands Debbie the guitar then climbs onto the couch, leaning behind her so that his chest is to her back and his arms are on either side of her shoulders. Debbie tenses up.

"Relax, relax," he says, pressing her shoulders down into a nominally more relaxed place. Then he puts his right hand over her right hand and brings it to where the strings cross the body of the guitar. He puts his left hand over hers—his hands are so much bigger, his fingers so much longer—and he brings her hand to the guitar's neck. He places her fingers at a couple of points and instructs her to press down hard. She does. It hurts.

"Now strum," he says, moving her right hand in an up and down motion. She does and the guitar makes a satisfying thrum.

"That's C," he tells her. She can feel the warmth of his chest pressed up against her, his heart beating into her shoulder.

Debbie nods and strums again, the fingers on her left hand still painful as the strings cut into their underside and Matty's fingers press down on top.

He frowns. "It's out of tune. Let me have it a sec."

She lets him take the guitar and moves out of the way, sitting beside him on the couch. She watches him for a few seconds, tightening a string, playing a note, frowning, and loosening the string. Then, as if she is possessed, she pounces across the couch and kisses him, causing him to nearly drop the guitar.

"Hey!" he says, pushing her back, "We can't do that."

"It's not illegal for you to  _kiss_  me," she says, "You're not gonna get arrested."

She leans forward to kiss him again, but he backs away.

"Debbie, I can't…"

"Why not?"

"Debbie…"

She looks at his face, all apologetic, and she hates him. "Why can't you just make me feel better?" she asks.

He shakes his head sadly, "I can't do that. Not that way."

Debbie feels so much… _something_ …coursing through her body like angry electricity and she wants it out and she doesn't know how to get it out. She wants everybody to just start being better people than they are and to start doing things for her that they aren't, even though she doesn't know what those things are supposed to be. She just needs everybody and everything to be different right now or she feels like she might just combust.

"Why can't you just fix it?" she shouts.

"Fix what?"

And in this moment, he's just the stupidest, most useless person she's ever seen. She gives up.

"I wanna go home," she says.

"Don't you like it?" he asks, holding out the guitar. God, she hates him.

"It's great, but I want to go home. Drive me home."

"I can't. I gotta be at work in twenty minutes."

"Fine." She stands up and holds out her hand. He looks at her, confused.

"Give it to me," she demands.

"Oh." He hands her the guitar.

Debbie lifts it by the neck and carries it out with her. "I'm breaking up with you," she calls back over her shoulder, "And your music sucks."

"Debbie…"

"Go to hell."

She is surprised to find that by the time she gets out onto the street she isn't crying. She's too tired to be angry or upset anymore. Maybe she'll feel that later. But right now, she just wants to go home.

* * *

When Debbie gets back to Wallace Street, she finds Mickey sitting on the front stoop, smoking a cigarette. There's a pack or two's worth of butts at his feet.

"What're you supposed to be?" he asks, "Joan Jett?"

"Who?"

"Never mind. Tell your brother to talk to me."

Debbie climbs past him and lets herself into the house. Inside, Ian is watching TV on the couch, drinking a beer. She leans the guitar against the wall and takes a seat next to him.

"Mickey's outside," she says.

"I know."

"You wanna see him?"

"Nope."

"Okay."

She settles in to watch the program with him. It's some sort of a cooking competition, like  _Iron Chef_ , but not. They watch the entire episode and are about ten minutes into the next one when Carl comes home.

"Mickey's still here?" he asks.

Debbie turns around to look at Carl as he's kicking off his shoes, "How long has he been here?"

"All day," Carl replies to Debbie. "He said to give you your phone," he adds to Ian, tossing the phone onto the couch.

"Are you just gonna leave him sitting out there?" Debbie asks Ian.

He doesn't answer, just continues to stare at the TV.

Carl throws himself onto the couch and announces, "I'm hungry." He pokes Ian with his foot, "Make grilled cheese."

"I don't feel like it."

"Come  _on_ ," Carl groans, kicking him again, "We never get your grilled cheese anymore. All we get is Lip's crap."

Debbie shoves Carl's foot back and gives him a look that says, ' _cut it out right now_ ,' but to her surprise, Ian gets up and heads to the kitchen. Carl gives Debbie a smug look before they both get up to follow.

Ian's grilled cheese is a thing with Debbie and Carl. They only ever got it when Ian was babysitting them because Fiona doesn't like it, and Lip always believed his own grilled cheese to be the preeminent Gallagher grilled cheese. But Debbie and Carl both know that Ian's is the superior grilled cheese. He does some weird thing with ketchup and mayonnaise, and neither of them has ever been able to quite duplicate it. And emphasizing the fact that they like it better than Lip's was always,  _always_  a surefire way to butter Ian up. Debbie's kind of amazed to see that still works.

In the kitchen, Ian makes the grilled cheese sandwiches mechanically. It's clear his heart's not really in it, but it still means something that he's doing it. Debbie and Carl watch videos of bike stunts gone wrong (Carl's favorite Youtube genre) on the laptop, keeping Ian company without putting any pressure on him to talk. It seems to be going well until they hear the front door slam and Frank waltzes in with Liam.

"Why is my son-in-law guarding the house? If you hired him as a bouncer, he's doing a piss-poor job."

"Fuck off, Frank," Ian says.

"Same thing he said," Frank replies, "Like peas in a pod. And while we're on the subject, why wasn't I invited to the wedding? I could've walked you down the aisle. Or were you not the bride?" Frank laughs to himself, "I don't think Terry'd be quite so generous about giving his son away."

"Where's Sheila?" Debbie demands to know. Sheila was supposed to be the one bringing Liam home tonight.

"Indisposed."

"She shouldn't have sent you," Debbie says.

"I think I can handle walking my own son five blocks," Frank replies, helping himself to a beer.

Debbie rolls her eyes and takes Liam to the table to color until dinner is ready. When she sits down, she sees Frank smile conspiratorially at Carl, and Debbie is pleased to see that Carl doesn't smile back.

Frank leans his elbows onto the counter and appraises Ian. "I haven't see you in six months. At  _least_."

Ian ignores him and continues to cook.

"Heard they sold you the same bill of goods they sold your mother." Frank puts up a hand and waves the idea away, "Nonsense. But you're gullible, just like her. Not independent thinkers, you and Monica. Hell, maybe you get that from my pussy brother. You were always too obedient. Wanted people to put you in line, tell you where to go." Frank barks a laugh, "I used to say 'That is not  _my_  child. No son of Frank Gallagher would ever let people boss him around. Tell him what to do.' No siree. Shit, look at your brothers. Both of them are assholes, sure," Frank gives Carl a pointed glare, "But at least they are their own men. People have been trying to shove them into boxes for years, but they don't listen. They know it's not how other people want to define you that counts. They know that's horseshit."

Frank takes a deep swig of beer and then nods in agreement with himself. "And it is horseshit. Our society likes to take anything that makes them uncomfortable—too much emotion, too much lust for life, too much creativity—and send it away. They slap a label on it—call you 'sick' or 'depressed' or ' _bipolar'_  or 'alcoholic'—and pack you off to a storage closet. It's how they maintain their power. Keep the masses in line with socially acceptable behavior. Socially acceptable? More like well-behaved and pliant. The institutions and the labels keep the people in power  _in power_  and the masses compliant. So you better well act like you're socially desirable and  _normal_ , otherwise they're gonna send you away."

Frank leans close to Ian and says, in as near to a compassionate tone Debbie has ever heard from him, "You're not crazy. Your brain is just socially undesirable."

Ian says nothing. His jaw looks like it's about to snap off, he's set it so tight, though. Debbie is trying desperately to think of some way to get Frank out of here.

Frank seems a bit miffed at getting no reaction. He takes another sip of beer and asks, "What're you doing here? Too much for Mickey to handle? Piece of advice: get off the meds. Me and Monica, we were golden, unstoppable, but every time some idiot at the clinic talked her into going on that stuff, it all went to hell. That stuff does nothing but make you a frigid, no-fun automaton."

"He's just visiting," Debbie says, hoping that giving Frank some kind of answer to one of his rants will satisfy him and shut him up.

But Frank doesn't want answers from Debbie. Ian is the novelty, and Frank seems determined to get a rise out of him. It's a damn challenge now.

"So, you're trying to come back? I got news for you,  _Ian Clayton_ —they don't want you back. Selfish little bastards, every one of them. They don't want anyone they've got to  _worry_  about or  _take_   _care of_. They don't want you cramping their style, getting in the way of their happy lives. They'd rather send you off somewhere. Oh, sure. They'll say it's for your own good, because you need to be with people who can take care of you. Like a state hospital psych ward. Or," he snorts, "In the care of your local mini-thug. They'll tell you  _and_  themselves a million beautiful lies about how it's all for you, and it's all for the best. Oh, heck, maybe they'll say you brought it on yourself? Heard that one a few times. But it's all lies to send you away and make them feel better. Out of sight, out of mind, my boy. That's how America deals with its square pegs, and that's how the loyal loving Gallagher clan deals with any family members that remind them that life isn't pretty. They sent your mother away. Then me. Now you. Welcome to the club of the people who don't get to come back. Membership's always open."

"Go home, Frank," Carl commands in a gravely voice.

"See?" Frank gestures toward Carl as if he is Exhibit A, "They turned my own boy against me."

"Leave him alone," Carl says, rising from his stool and coming toward Frank.

Frank gives Carl a dismissive look and then says to Ian, "Don't believe for a second that he'll always look up to you. They've already got him treating you like a poor, sick imbecile who can't defend himself from a  _gravely ill_  old man."

"Get. Out." Carl growls.

Frank reaches out and gives Carl a petty, condescending little shove.

At the first sign of contact between Frank and Carl, Ian has spun around and lifted Frank up by the shirt collar. "Don't you ever lay a fucking hand on him," Ian says into Frank's face. He pounds Frank's body once against the base cabinets, causing a canister to roll off onto the floor and Frank's beer to slosh all over the two of them. Then Ian walks him bodily to the back door.

"I swear to god, Frank, if you ever so much as touch him, or her, or him," Ian says, pointing at Carl, Debbie, and Liam, "I'll take my socially undesirable brain and kill you."

"What difference does it make?" Frank sneers with a phony smile, "State Penitentiary or the State Hospital? You're gonna end up in one of them anyway."

Ian stands there for a second, his hands trembling as he continues to grip Frank. Then he pulls open the door and throws Frank down the back steps. They can hear Frank curse and the beer bottle clink and roll as it hits the pavement.

Ian locks the door then and turns to face his siblings' shocked and expectant faces. Debbie anticipated that Ian would look furious, but he doesn't. He looks stricken.

"I'm going to bed," he says once he's regained to ability to speak.

"It's not even seven o'clock," Carl points out.

"I'm tired." Ian heads to the stairs, then pauses on the second step and says, "I'm sorry." Then he climbs the rest of the way up like an eighty-year-old man.

Debbie and Carl don't say anything to each other. They salvage what they can of the now-burned grilled cheese sandwiches and eat their meal in silence. Then Carl takes Liam up for his bath. Debbie cleans up the kitchen, slides Ian's untouched sandwich onto a plate and brings it out to Mickey.

He looks up hopefully when he hears the door, but his face falls back into its customary frown when he sees it's just her.

"You hungry?" Debbie asks. "Carl says you've been out here all day."

Mickey gives a defiant shrug, but he takes the plate as Debbie sits down beside him. He acts like he's not going to eat it at first, then like he's only eating it reluctantly, then he gives up pretending and wolfs the rest of it down.

Debbie looks at her feet while Mickey eats. "I don't think he's gonna talk to you tonight," she says when Mickey has finished and laid the plate down on the step.

"Yeah, I figured." He wipes his hands on his jeans and lights another cigarette.

"He's not doing okay, is he?" Debbie asks, "It's more than just a fight."

Mickey doesn't answer her, but what he doesn't say tells her enough. Now she finally feels the tears starting to prickle in her eyes. Everything was good, and now it's not.

To her utter shock, Mickey takes her hand and squeezes it. "Don't worry," he says, "I'll fix it."

Debbie's past the point of believing that anybody can fix anything anymore, but she's willing to pretend for the moment.

If you had asked her, she'd never in a million years have said she wanted another brother. Four brothers are more than anyone should have to endure. But tonight she doesn't mind having a fifth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos/any kind of feedback is greatly appreciated. Also, please feel to chat with me on tumblr at [Zebra Wallpaper](http://zebrawallpaper.tumblr.com).


	9. When This Old World Starts Getting Me Down

After the incident with Frank and after Mickey finally gave up and went off to work at the Alibi, Debbie had a terrible time sleeping. There was just too much to think about. By the time her alarm went off, she wasn't even sure if she'd been asleep at all.

Ian's long gone by the time Debbie gets up.

"His stuff's still here," Carl informs her when Debbie peeks into the boys' room to check.

"Think that's good?" Debbie asks.

Carl shrugs.

They clomp down the stairs to find Fiona looking cheerful and holding out her phone in front of her. "Lip's on speakerphone," she says, "He's got an exam at nine. Tell him good luck."

Debbie starts to wish him well, but Carl talks over her. "Ian's going crazy again," he says, leaning into the phone. It's the first thing he's said to Lip in weeks.

"What?" Lip and Fiona ask simultaneously.

"Ian's going crazy again," Carl repeats, taking the Sunny Delight out of the fridge.

"Did he stop taking his medicine?" Fiona asks, flabbergasted.

"I dunno," Carl replies, pouring himself a glass, "But he's losing it."

Debbie pours herself a cup of coffee and watches Fiona's face. Debbie can tell that Fiona's running through all of their recent interactions in her head, searching for evidence to support or refute this claim. Then her expression shifts from fearful to reassured as she comes to some internal decision. "He's just been moody 'cause he's fightin' with Mickey," Fiona says with an approximation of confidence, "I'm sure he's fine. I saw him this morning before he left for work. Just seemed a little grumpy."

"Yeah," Lip pipes up from the phone, "You know, we got a drink together the week before last. He seemed all right, Carl. We can't be jumping to that conclusion every time he's not Mr. Sunshine."

Carl shrugs, giving up. He starts shoveling handfuls of dry Corn Pops into his mouth, but he gives Debbie a look.

Fiona turns her attention to Liam then, scooping up his dirty cereal bowl and picking up the pieces of stray cereal off his placemat. Debbie watches her do this and feels anxiety ramping up as she realizes that Fiona's about to let the subject drop. Fiona would always much rather believe that everything's fine, especially if Lip's backing her up on it.

"No," Debbie hears herself say.

"No what?" Fiona asks, taking Liam's cereal bowl to the sink.

"He's not fine. Something's wrong. Ian knows it."

"What'd ya say, Debs?" Lip asks.

Fiona looks at Debbie uneasily and picks up the phone. "She said something's wrong, and Ian knows it," Fiona says into the phone. Then to Debbie she says, "Did he say something about it to you?"

"No," Debbie admits.

Fiona looks briefly triumphant, like she's just pointed out a flaw in silly Debbie's logic. "If he knows something's not right, why wouldn't he say anything?" Fiona says.

Debbie sighs. "You remember the time his foot got infected?"

And Fiona's eyes go big at this, her concern fully switched on at last.

When he was twelve, Ian cut the bottom of his foot on a broken bottle and didn't tell anybody. He bandaged it himself and waked around on it for days without saying a word until, after four days, the pain was so excruciating, he told Fiona he was staying home from school. She asked him why, and he feigned a stomach flu and a headache, but she wasn't buying it. Eventually, she got it out of him that his foot was hurting. Fiona scoffed at this until she removed his sock and a filthy clump of Band-Aids, only to reveal a wound so disgusting that Debbie, who was watching over Fiona's shoulder, almost threw up. They called Veronica and she took one look at it and told Kev to get the truck. At the hospital, all Fiona kept asking Ian over and over again was, "Why didn't you say anything?" Ian hadn't been able to give them an explanation anymore satisfying than "I don't know." But Debbie had taken one look at Ian, all pale and pumped full of antibiotics and painkillers, surrounded by nurses and his siblings and his neighbors, and Debbie understood that he'd probably rather have quietly lost the foot than been subjected to that kind of attention.

"All right, all right, listen," Lip says, his authoritative, everybody-keep-calm tone making it clear that he too has not forgotten The Foot Infection Incident of 2008, "I'll stop by and see him on his break today after my exam gets out. I'll talk to him, see what's up. Sure it's no big deal. Maybe he just, uh, needs to talk to somebody, you know? Maybe it's nothing. Maybe he's just having a shit week. Okay?"

Fiona nods, forgetting that Lip can't see her. Then she puts one hand on Debbie's shoulder and the other on Carl. "That sounds good," she says, "Lip's gonna talk to him and it's gonna be fine. All right? We'll figure this out."

Carl shakes her off and heads upstairs to get dressed, and Fiona's left looking to Debbie for reassurance.

"Whatever," Debbie says, following Carl, coffee mug in hand. As she passes the phone, she leans over and says, "Good luck on your test."

"Yeah, thanks," Lip replies, and she can hear the distraction in his voice now. The test is no longer the top thing that he is worried about. Good.

As she gets to the top of the stairs, Carl passes her on his way to the bathroom and says, "They think we're idiots."

"They think we're five," Debbie replies.

In her room, Debbie sips her coffee while she dresses and tries to come up with a plan. Somebody has to. Fiona obviously has no idea what to do, and she's too afraid of pissing Ian off, so she's just gonna pass it onto Lip. And Lip's an idiot—he really  _is_  going to piss Ian off, that's for sure, and probably make things even worse. And Mickey doesn't seem to know what to do either. Or Carl…

Debbie sits down hard on the bed and pushes her hair out of her face with both hands, unconsciously imitating her sister. She has no idea what to do, no idea where to start.

Maybe she can talk to Mickey. Maybe he can give her more information at least. Maybe something happened, something that can be fixed. And then what? Fix whatever's going on between them and Ian's magically all better? It doesn't work like that.

Debbie grabs a hair tie off her nightstand to put her hair up with, usually the last part of her morning routine, but then she just sits there playing with it, stretching it between her thumb and forefinger as she continues to think.

Whatever's going on, Ian's probably gonna need to see a doctor. And he's probably not going to want to. Somehow Debbie's going to have to convince him. Or force him. And she doesn't know how she's going to be able to do that by herself. Even if she got Mickey and Carl to help, she doesn't know if the three of them could force him to do anything. Ian's so stubborn, and she has no idea if he'll listen to reason right now. He'll probably just get mad at her too. She doesn't want him to be mad at her. He's never been mad at her before…

She gazes at the hairband intensely, notices how the fiber has worn away in one spot where the elastic is starting to show through.

Maybe she's just going to have to live with Ian getting mad at her. For all she knows, he may never speak to her again. The thought makes her feel sick, but she knows that  _somebody's_  gotta help him. She thinks about how broken he looked last night after he threw Frank out, how scared he'd looked on the train, like he was being held hostage in his own body. She can't just leave him to save himself. Because what if he doesn't? What if he can't?

Debbie's stomach goes uneasy as she thinks about Monica, how remorseful she'd looked on the kitchen floor. Like she was sorry, but she couldn't help it.

Debbie's gotta do something.

Quickly, she ties her hair into a ponytail and climbs to her feet, forming a desperate plan. Maybe she and Mickey can go talk to Ian's doctor. What if the doctor won't talk to them? Maybe she can talk to Jimmy's dad. He's a doctor. Maybe he can help or maybe he knows somebody who can. Just getting Ian to see a doctor one way or another, that's what she's got to do.

She shoves her phone into her backpack with her ear buds and her library book and her hoodie and everything else she might need for today. And then she pauses as a new horrible idea occurs to her.

Ian's already been to see doctors. What if whatever's happening now is something more than just going to see a doctor can fix? What if they insist they've got to take Ian away? What if he's declared a danger to himself or  _legally insane_ , and they lock him up? She thinks about how lonely and ugly and scary it was when she saw Monica in the hospital. Debbie pictures Ian there and it makes her mouth go dry. He'd hate it so much. He'd never forgive her. And god knows what they'd do to him there. They might shock him with electricity or half-drown him in cold water like in that one movie. She read that they still do those things sometimes. What if Ian gets taken away because of her, and they do awful things to him? What if they do those things, and he comes back a different person? What if he never comes back?

Debbie steps mindlessly into the hallway just then, preoccupied with this terrible thought, and she walks smack into Fiona.

"Whoa," Fiona says, taking a step back.

Debbie snaps out of her reverie and grasps back onto reality. "Aren't you gonna be late?" she asks.

"If they wanna can me for being ten minutes late, screw 'em," Fiona says dismissively. Then she fixes Debbie with a serious look. "I wanna talk to you."

"What?" Debbie groans.

Fiona frowns. "I wanted to tell you that, whatever's up with Ian, it's okay. We know what it probably is; it's not a mystery. And we'll do whatever we can to help him. All right?"

"Fine," Debbie replies, unmoved, still thinking about hospitals and terrible, scary treatments.

Fiona fixes her with a not-fucking-around look. "Listen. I know you. I know you're worrying and getting all worked up. And I need you to stop it, okay? That's not gonna do him any good. Or you."

Debbie opens her mouth to protest, but Fiona keeps talking.

"Honest to god, Debs, I swear you're gonna be the only thirteen-year-old in this town with stress ulcers. You told us Ian's not good. Lip's taking care of it. All right? Let him handle it. There's nothing more you can do right now. I need you to take a deep breath and stop worrying."

Debbie's instinct is to throw Fiona's concern back at her and tell her to mind her own business, or that maybe Debbie wouldn't have to do all the worrying around here if Fiona paid more attention. And that if anything, Fiona's making it worse because she's worrying about Debbie when she should be saving all her worry for Ian. He's the one who needs it. Not Debbie. Why the hell is Fiona wasting her time worrying about  _Debbie_?

But then Fiona puts her hand softly to the side of Debbie's face. That touch brings back the memories of every time Debbie was ever ill and Fiona was there to make her feel better, every time Fiona cleaned her up after she'd been sick, put a cool washcloth to her head, or wiped her snot and tears with a Kleenex. Fiona was there for Debbie. She was there for Ian. She'll be there for all of them again, surely. Maybe Debbie just needs to let her be here now.

Debbie lets out a deep, shaky breath. "I think Lip's just gonna piss him off," she confesses. It feels like she's released ten pounds of pressure from her chest, just saying that little bit out loud.

Fiona smiles. "Wouldn't be the first time, huh? He doesn't exactly have the most tactful approach."

"We have to help Ian, though. If he just gets mad—"

"We'll help him," Fiona says firmly, putting her arm around Debbie and leading her down the hall. "If Plan A doesn't work, then we go to Plan B."

"What's Plan B?" Debbie asks as they reach the top of the stairs.

"Fucked if I know," Fiona says then her tone becomes more serious as they head down into the kitchen, "But we'll figure it out. All of us. Okay? We'll figure it out."

Debbie nods, feeling better despite herself. The idea of not being completely alone in handling this is heartening.

"We better get movin', though," Fiona says, leading Debbie to the door, "Can't risk both of us losing our jobs for bein' late."

They walk part of the way together, hurrying to minimize Fiona's lateness but still with a sense of camaraderie. Debbie can't remember the last time she and Fiona spent any significant time alone together. It's something she's only just now realizing she's missed.

They hustle companionably and then Debbie finds herself saying, "I broke up with Matty."

"Oh, god. I'm sorry, Debs."

"It's okay," Debbie replies, "It's weird, though. I don't really  _feel_  anything."

"Well," Fiona says, thinking about it, "Either it's gonna take a bit before it hits ya, or maybe you didn't really like him as much as you thought ya did."

"Maybe."

They reach the diner. Fiona gives her a sympathetic smile and says, "You'll be all right."

"I know," Debbie nods. "He bought me a guitar," she adds.

"Well, hey," Fiona says, "That's something. Now you gotta decide if you're gonna learn it or pawn it. Either way, it's a win."

Debbie finds that, as she parts ways with Fiona and heads for the El, she actually feels sort of optimistic about things. The family's not where it was six months ago. Standing here in the bright July sunshine, it's hard to believe that they could ever be back where they were in that bleak, miserable winter.

And things seem to be looking up as Debbie scores an actual seat on the train. She settles in, claiming every inch of space available, then takes out her phone and starts googling stress ulcers.

* * *

Joaquin isn't at the pool today, which feels like a bad omen. Debbie watches the big, douchey jock guy who's covering Joaquin's class, and, for some reason, it makes her feel nervous. Debbie's charges are all kinds of cranky too, which makes things feel even further off. Her kids are usually the most well-behaved little girls, but today they're bickering and complaining and trying to kick each other, and the world feels like it's slipped just a degree or two out of its usual orbit. She thinks maybe it's all her imagination or her brain's one last attempt to cling to the familiar anxiety she promised Fiona she'd let go, but then when she gets back to the house, Amanda's car is parked out front. The engine is still settling down from having recently been running, and Debbie's heart sinks.

She lets herself into the house just in time to hear Lip say to Fiona, "All right, now I'm fuckin' worried."

"What's wrong?" Debbie asks. She notices immediately that Carl is home and Liam too. They're all home. They've not all been home together at the same time once the entire summer. Now they're all standing in the living room and there's no way any of this is good.

"They didn't say anything about what happened?" Fiona asks Lip. He shakes his head.

"What's wrong?" Debbie repeats.

Fiona turns away from Lip and buries her hand in her own hair, eyes wide. "Lip went to see Ian at work today and they told him Ian went home early 'cause he injured himself."

"Injured himself? What does that mean?"

"I don't fuckin' know," Lip says, "Some confidentiality shit. I barely got them to tell me that much."

"So, is he here?"

"I don't know where the hell he is. I went over to Mickey's and some whore told me Ian doesn't live there anymore."

"Did you talk to Mickey?"

"Mickey's gone MIA too."

Debbie turns to Carl. "Do you know where he is?"

Carl shakes his head. "He's not texting me back."

"Well, are they together?"

"Don't think so," Lip says, "Kev says Mickey stopped by the Alibi for his cut twenty minutes ago and was bitching that Ian still wasn't talkin' to him."

"Shit," Fiona whispers, "Oh, shit."

And then Lip's eyes really bug out at the prospect of Fiona panicking. "Okay," he says loudly, holding up his hands, "Okay. We do this just like we used to do with Frank. Okay?"

Nobody looks convinced so his raises his hands higher and says again, " _Okay_?"

Then Fiona nods fervently, like she's trying to project enough enthusiasm for all of them. "Okay. Yeah. Let's figure out how we're gonna split up."

Lip puts his hand to his temple as he starts strategizing. They're all waiting on his directions when Carl interrupts.

"Did anybody check the roof yet?"

The roof—the flat part of it, anyway—was always the one place in the Gallagher house where a person could get some guaranteed privacy. They'd every one of them sat up there at one point or another when they needed to just get the fuck away from the rest of the household for a bit. There are cigarette butts scattered there from years of deep thought, empty liquor bottles that occasionally roll back and forth in the wind, and a long-forgotten notebook full of pros and cons and plans that has nearly melted into the asphalt shingles from seasons of snow and rain and sun beating down. Suddenly, they all know exactly where Ian is.

Without a word, they're marching up the stairs, Liam laughing and scampering up behind them. The easiest way to access that part of the roof is through the window in Frank's old room. There's a bit of a landing where two levels of roof meet and a short run of ladder rungs bolted to the side of the house that will boost you the rest of the way up. Many a moment of privacy has been obtained through this path, many a Frisbee retrieved.

"Oh, thank God," Debbie hears Lip say as she follows him and Fiona out the window to the landing. Even without climbing the little ladder, they can all see Ian sitting up on the flat part of the roof a couple yards away, his hair glowing flame orange in the late day sunlight. His right hand is wrapped in so much gauze that at first Debbie thinks he's clasping a small, white pillow. And there's something weird about his face. It takes her a second to realize why it looks so odd, but then she understands—it's contorted in sobs.

All three of them step forward for the ladder at the same time, with Carl climbing out onto the landing behind them. Fiona stops and turns, though.

"Go back in," she commands, shooing them with both hands, "Stay inside."

Debbie and Carl both start to protest, but Lip turns around and begins herding them back to the window. "She's right. He doesn't need a whole crowd right now."

Reluctantly, they climb back into the bedroom. They sit on Lip's old bed with Liam and wait. Nobody talks.

As she watches Liam push a Hot Wheels car along the pattern on the comforter, Debbie thinks about how she's never seen Ian crying like that. She's seen him tear up and try very hard not to cry—when Monica slit her wrists, when Lip dropped a toolbox on Ian's foot and broke two of his toes—but Debbie's never, as far back as she can remember, seen Ian full-on crying. She hasn't thought about it before, but now it strikes her as sad. Not sad that he's crying now, though it was awful to see even in this brief glimpse, but sad that he never cried before, or felt that he could let anyone see it if he did. Not for the first time this year, Debbie considers how alone Ian's always been.

She and Carl both look up as Lip starts climbing out the window. Immediately, Debbie moves to follow him. Carl rises too.

"No," Lip says, turning back around, "You guys stay here."

"No," Debbie replies, "I'm going up too."

Lip looks stern, but quickly calculates that there isn't any stopping her. "Fine," he says, "Carl, stay with Liam."

"No way," Carl protests, "I'm not staying down here."

"Fuck," Lip says, staring down his stern-faced younger siblings and then giving up. "Fine. Gimme Liam."

Lip holds tight to Liam as they all climb out onto the landing. Then Lip gestures with his head and Debbie climbs up the ladder. Once up, she reaches down for Liam. Lip hands him up to her, then quickly climbs up himself, with Carl fast on his heels.

Ian, the giant of the family, looks smaller than Debbie can ever remember him having been. His shoulders are turned in toward each other, body balled up tight, his head against Fiona's chest. He's crying, and she's soothing him. With one of her hands she holds him close to her, and she's using the other to pet the back of his head over and over. "It's okay," she murmurs, "it's okay…"

Confronted with this sight, Debbie feels Carl touch her arm, unconsciously seeking comfort. He pulls his hand away, though, as soon as he realizes what he's done. Debbie gives him what she hopes is a kind of a reassuring smile, but in this moment it's just a hasty stab at what reassuring might even look like.

"Hey," Fiona says softly, "Look who's here."

Ian opens one bloodshot eye to see the rest of his siblings approaching. Then he closes it and looks even more miserable. "I don't want you to see me like this," he says, his voice high and squeaky like an unoiled gate hinge.

Fiona somehow finds a way to smile. "I changed your diapers when you were a baby. I've seen worse. We've all seen each other a lot worse than this."

"Don't cry, Ian," Liam says, reaching out with his small hand to touch his brother's tearstained face.

Ian cries harder.

Lip sits down cross-legged in front of Ian and holds Liam tight in his lap. He soothes the four-year-old by petting the back of his head the same way Fiona is doing with Ian. Liam is still watching Ian with concern, though.

"Please don't keep Liam away from me anymore," Ian whimpers, "I can't lose anyone else."

"You haven't lost anybody," Fiona says as he continues to cry. She kisses his temple, "We're all still here."

Debbie and Carl sit tentatively on either side of Lip, facing Ian and Fiona. Debbie puts her hand on the toe of Ian's boot, afraid to touch him anymore than that in case it upsets him. He's still got his work boots and his janitor uniform on, though there's dried blood on the front of his shirt and pants that has darkened the olive drab to black in places. She tries not to look at that.

"Everything's shit," he says, "I fucked it all up."

"What's going on, man?" Lip asks gently.

Ian doesn't answer at first, just keeps crying. He's scrunching tighter and tighter against Fiona, as if he can hide from them inside of her. Then he says, "It's all happening again. I can feel it happening. Everything I did, and it still doesn't work…"

"Your—your meds, you mean?" Lip asks, "They're not working?"

"Nothing's working. It's all shit. It's all happening again. I can't do this again. I can't."

"Okay," Lip says, his tone more reassured now that he finally has a fact to latch onto, "We all read the pamphlets. We all read the website stuff. We knew this could happen. It's not a big deal. We go see your doctor tomorrow, tell him what's been going on. He recalibrates things, changes whatever needs to be changed. Pretty soon you're good as new."

But Ian's too far-gone to listen to Lip's logic, or the idea of starting over is just too much. He squeezes his eyes shut and says, "I don't wanna be like this."

"Ian, you're fine. You're gonna be fine," Lip says.

"I'm not fucking fine. I ruined everything. It's all shit."

"What'd you ruin?" Lip asks, "Nobody's dead. Didn't burn the house down or lose your job. You're not even in bed. You're right here, talkin' to us. Far as I'm concerned, that's one in the Plus column."

Ian starts crying anew. It's unsettling to see him so despondent. Ian's always been tough as nails. Even when they were witness to his last depressive turn, he simply behaved as if he was dead. Seeing him overwhelmed with this much emotion is ghastly, made worse by the fact that Debbie knows this is the last thing Ian would ever want any of them to see. His privacy is so precious to him.

Lip glances at Fiona, then back at Ian. "Somethin' happen?" he asks, "They—they said stuff can, uh, trigger…episodes?" Lip struggles to remember the right terminology, as if there are magic words to untangle Ian's brain from his emotions right now, as if pairing correct clinical language with logic will solve everything.

Ian doesn't answer and Lip offers him the first response he can think of. "Was it your fight with Mickey that set you off?"

At the sound of Mickey's name, Ian's face crumbles. "Mickey," he moans, "Mickey knew. He knew it was happening again, and I didn't want to believe him. I didn't want him to be right. I hadn't felt that good in so long…but it was all a joke. I'm never gonna feel that good again. It's always a joke."

Debbie thinks back to those dinners they had in Lakeview and Lincoln Park, and she realizes with a sick feeling in her stomach that Ian probably spent most of the summer manic and none of them noticed. How did they miss it again? Is it possible the medication dulled it somewhat, made it appear as if he was just feeling especially energetic and happy? Kept him from going too off the rails? Even so, she feels guilty as she recalls all the details that are now appearing very much like red flags. And instead of trying to help him when he was obviously acting strange, she'd been mean to him about it. Her cheeks go hot with shame. She's the worst sister ever.

Fiona gives Lip a look that Debbie can't figure out. Lip looks from Fiona back to Ian. "Is there somethin' else going on?" he asks him.

Ian closes his eyes again.

"Tell them," Fiona encourages him, "Tell them what you were just telling me."

"No," Ian says, "What's the point? It's not gonna happen anyway."

"Tell them," she repeats, "I want them to hear what you've been trying to do."

Debbie glances at Carl to see if he has any idea what they're talking about. He looks as puzzled as she feels, though.

Ian heaves a shaky sigh and turns his head to face them. His eyes are open, but they look dead and resigned. "I get benefits. You know? At work?"

"Sure," Lip nods.

"But…" Ian's voice wavers, as if he's losing grasp on the thread of his own thoughts, or perhaps losing the energy to vocalize them, "It's not just for me. Like, if I had kids…"

"Yeah," Lip encourages him, stepping in to help him lift the heavy words, "Sure. Like health insurance for your dependents. Sure."

"Dependents," Ian repeats, recognizing a word he has apparently been looking for, "But not just insurance. Tuition."

"Oh, right, right, right," Lip says brightly, trying hard to keep him going, "If you work at Poly, your kids can go there for free. That's right. That's pretty standard at schools, I think."

"Not just at Poly. UIC. Or the City Colleges. Any—"

"Anywhere that's in the state system," Lip says, nodding, "All the Illinois public schools. Sure. It's reciprocal. My lab partner Brandon—his mom works at ISU. So he doesn't pay for his classes at Poly. Just pays for the dorm and books and stuff."

Maybe Ian's decided it's easier to just let Lip do the talking for him because he doesn't say any more, just sits there as if what he's already said has explained enough.

Debbie furrows her brow, trying to decipher something she missed. Lip seems just as clueless, sort of leaning forward toward Ian, pushing him to go on. Ian remains silent, though, his eyes resting on Liam.

"But you don't have any kids," Carl says finally.

Ian looks distraught at this statement, and Fiona steps in.

"Ian was gonna try and get shared guardianship of you guys with me so he could put you through college."

"What?" Lip and Debbie ask.

Fiona just looks down at Ian, waiting for him to continue. It's clear that this is the extent of what he'd told her before the rest of them came up to the roof.

"It doesn't matter," Ian says, "It wouldn't have worked anyway. I thought it was such a good plan. I was gonna help you guys get out of here, and my life wouldn't be a waste. I was so proud, but it was so…dumb. The whole time, I thought I was gonna fix everything…I'm so stupid…"

As he recounts what he clearly now views as his own foolishness, tears are streaming down Ian's face. Fiona does her best to wipe them away with her hand, but it's futile. Without a word, Carl peels off his own t-shirt and hands it to Ian to use as a handkerchief.

"Was Mickey on board with this?" Fiona asks, appearing just as shocked and confused as the rest of them, but trying not to sound like it.

Ian wipes his face roughly. "No. He thought it would put too much pressure on me. Mickey thinks I can't handle anything anymore. He didn't think they'd ever give me guardianship anyway, and he was right. I finally talked to a lawyer and…" Ian's face grows hot with embarrassment at the memory, "She basically laughed at me. Told me I was too crazy and too young and too poor. My husband's a pimp. I live with drug dealers and whores. She said no family court in their right mind was ever gonna declare me fit to take care of anyone…She and Mickey and everybody, they're all right…I'm just stupid and useless."

Debbie is immediately incensed in a way that she only gets when someone goes after one of her own. Who the hell was this woman to say something like that to Ian? At the same time, Debbie is astounded by the information that is unfolding. That Ian has been quietly planning all this by himself the last few months, putting the pieces in place for a scheme to propel Debbie and Carl out of the Southside... she finds herself wondering suddenly if it was just a coincidence that he hooked Debbie up with the job working for Elisa. He knew very well what Elisa does for a living. Then Debbie thinks about how Ian was trying to coerce Mickey into getting his GED, gathering study materials without telling him…and, god, it was  _Ian_  who told Fiona about the lottery for Liam's summer pre-school program…just how many plans has he been busily engineering for everybody else?

"How much did you pay this stupid bitch to tell you that?" Lip asks, and Debbie can see that Lip is just as furious at this anonymous lawyer as Debbie is.

"It was a free consultation," Ian mumbles.

"Still paid too fuckin' much," Lip replies, "Too bad they can't disbar people for being morons."

"They let Frank take care of us," Carl says, the protective anger evident in his voice too, "You're a lot better than Frank."

Ian covers his eyes with hands and digs his palms in. "I know it was a stupid idea. But it made me so happy…and now I know I was just being dumb and crazy. I'm sorry I can't do it for you guys. I'm sorry I'm just like Monica with my dumb ideas and letting everybody down. I hate being like this."

Fiona's crying now too. She wraps her arms around Ian and kisses the top of his head. "I love you," she tells him, "I love you right now exactly how you are."

"Hey," Lip says, putting his hand on Ian's knee, "Man, you know none of this is as bad as you think it is, right? It's just whatever's off in your head right now telling you everything is awful. It's not that bad. You're gonna feel better soon, and you'll realize that none of this is that big a deal."

Ian just shakes his head. "Everything I try to do just goes to hell," he says, "I'm so tired of trying and letting everybody down. I'm so fucking tired."

"Listen," Lip says, "It was a nice idea with the school and everything, but it's okay it didn't work out. We're Gallaghers. We know not to expect shit like that."

Ian sniffs, his old resentment still present, "Easy enough for you to say."

Lip shrugs. "Yeah, sure. I got lucky. But Debbie and Carl aren't stupid. They're gonna get there one way or another. Work-study, scholarships, student loans. Beg, borrow, steal. Whatever it takes, we'll get them out of here. We'll all make sure they get there, man. You don't have to take that on. Nobody's asking you to do that. All we want you to do is be okay. And stop being such an asshole to yourself. You don't deserve that."

"I don't want to just be okay," Ian says softly.

"I know," Lip says, "But for now that's enough, all right? Worry about bein' everybody's fucking hero later. Right now you just gotta concentrate on bein' okay."

Ian does not seem convinced, but at least he's stopped crying and calmed down for the moment. Debbie's relieved at that, though she's now worried that this means he's starting to shut down. She doesn't want this day to end with Ian in bed and catatonic. She prays, begs God silently to not let that be where this is going.

She's so distracted by her pleas for intercession, that it takes her a minute to process that Lip has just assured Ian that it's a given that Debbie will be going to college. She had no idea anybody believed that, and here Lip and Fiona and Ian are, acting like it's not a completely absurd statement, like it's something they all assumed was possible. Debbie doesn't quite know what to do with this.

But Lip's sort of smiling now, seeming encouraged by Ian's relative calmness. "So, what," he asks, "you were just gonna stay there, moppin' floors for ten years 'til Debbie and Carl graduate college? Was that the plan?"

"Twenty-three years," Ian says quietly.

"Twenty-three years?" Lip laughs, "What the fuck?"

"Liam," Fiona says, "Twenty-three years to get Liam through school too. That's it, right?"

Lip laughs again, though his expression is softer. "You always sucked at math, man. At most, it'd be nineteen years to get Liam through. Or were you counting on him flunking a lot of grades?"

Ian whispers something, but it's too quiet to make out.

"Huh?" Lip asks, still laughing.

"Yevgeny. If Mickey got full custody…because we're married, he could be mine too really easy. Svetlana would do that if Yevgeny could go to college. I know she would."

Lip is momentarily struck dumb. Then he puts his hands on either side of Ian's puffy, tear-stained face and says, "Ian, you have the biggest fucking heart and no idea what to do with it."

Ian just looks back at him blankly, his eyes sad and empty.

"You haven't even been alive twenty-three years," Lip says, "You thought you'd just sign yourself up for a sentence like that?"

"What else have I got going on?"

Lip smiles as if Ian's made a joke, as if they're just having a perfectly normal conversation. He runs his fingers through Liam's hair, then asks casually, "So, this means you get free tuition for yourself, right?"

Ian looks back at him with the same dead eyes. "There's not much point."

"What, there's a point in Carl and Debbie and Liam and Mickey's love child going to college, but not you?"

"Lip, I'm fucked, all right? There's no changing that."

"Nothing to say you can't be fucked in a slightly better-paying job. Can't you still be fucked and feeling sorry for yourself in a nicer neighborhood? Take your husband and his kid to some gay parent paradise? Not living in this shithole wondering at what point some local idiots get drunk and decide it'd be fun to play arson at the neighborhood faggots' house?"

There's something in Ian's eyes just then, some tiny, distant spark of attention. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. After a few seconds he says, reluctantly, "You know how long that would take? Taking one class at a time while still working all day?"

"Oh, yeah," Lip says, "Forgot you're not good at hard work and long-term goals. Dedication and patience were never really your strong suits. Must've been some other ugly fuck I used to bunk with. Some other little shithead who used to wake me up at 4:30 in the goddamn morning doin' his calisthenics."

Ian shakes his head. "That's not me anymore. I lost all that."

"Like hell you did," Fiona says, looking genuinely angry, "What on Earth have you been doing all these months if not draggin' yourself out of a goddamn pit of shit by your fingernails and building a whole new life from nothing?"

"Pretty sure I was manic half the time."

"It doesn't matter," Fiona says, "You still did it. It was still you making all these plans and following through on them, figuring out how you were gonna fix your own life and every relative's in a half-mile radius. And you weren't manic that whole time. Not the whole time. And what does it even matter? Not like you're some other person the minute your drugs stop doin' everything they're supposed to be doin'. That was the you I always knew who married Mickey. That was you who got yourself a damn good job. That was you who got your GED on your first try because you knew you had to. Oh,  _yes_ , Debbie told me. I know that was you. I've known you your whole damn life, Ian. I know who you are. And you're still you, even with whatever the hell you've been goin' through this summer."

His face is void of emotion now and it's difficult to tell if anything is getting through. Then he says, "I'm really tired."

"All right," Fiona says brightly, rolling with the reality that there's no speech tonight that's going to fix everything, "How 'bout we go downstairs, have a couple drinks, and order a pizza? When was the last time we all got to have dinner together, huh?"

"Sounds great," Lip says, "Yeah, guys?"

"Yeah," Debbie and Carl both respond a beat too late but full of identical forced cheer.

Lip and the younger siblings rise to their feet with Fiona and then Ian following. As they head toward the landing, Lip points to Ian's bandaged hand and asks lightly, "What happened there?"

"Broke some tile in the men's washroom in the Biology building," Ian replies, tilting his gauze-wrapped hand forward and backward as he says this, as if looking at it is helping him recall what happened to it.

"How'd you break the tile?" Lip asks.

"With my fist."

Lip grins at this response, choosing to interpret Ian's deadpan answer as a joke. Maybe it is.

"Ah. I see," Lip says, "Uh, mind if we have Vee come over and take a look at it?"

Ian shrugs. "Campus Health Services already did. They put the bandage on."

"Fair enough," Lip says, putting his arm around Ian's shoulder, "What's the prognosis?"

Ian continues to rotate his hand and says dreamily, as if the nurse or whoever's words are just coming back to him, "Not broken. Just needs some time."

Lip squeezes Ian's shoulder as he leads him to the ladder. "Sounds about right."

* * *

Lip goes to fetch a couple beers and leaves Ian in the living room, staring at  _How It Works_  with Liam beside him on the couch. In the kitchen, Debbie, Carl, and Fiona are arguing over which pizza place to order from, the menus spread out across the table.

"Hey, listen," Fiona says quietly to Lip, "I hope you don't mind me making you stay for dinner. I know you gotta get back."

"I'm not leaving him alone tonight," Lip replies bluntly. "I'm stayin' over."

"Thought you had an early class tomorrow?"

"I'll skip it," Lip says, popping the caps off two beers, "Taking him to the doctor myself."

"What if he won't go? I'm worried he's not gettin' out of bed tomorrow."

"If I have to get Kev down here to fucking carry his ass out, that's what I'm gonna do."

Fiona nods. "We gotta find Mickey. He should be there with you guys tomorrow."

"Not my priority right now," Lip shrugs, and carries the bottles back to the living room.

As Fiona heads back toward the table, Carl walks past her and starts emptying the contents of the flatware drawer into a Jewel bag.

"What're you doing?" Fiona asks.

"You don't need knives to eat pizza," Carl replies.

"Oh, Jesus," Fiona whispers as Carl takes the bag of cutlery upstairs to hide it. They can hear him stop in the hall bathroom along the way, slamming open the medicine cabinet, where Debbie's quite certain he's snatching up the razors and the pills as well.

Fiona pushes her hair out of her face and then holds her hands there on the back of her head for a few seconds, eyes closed, breathing deep. Then she turns to Debbie with a warm smile. "Everything's gonna be fine, Debs."

Debbie ignores this reassurance and hands her one of the menus. "Order from Rosatti's," Debbie says, "Ian likes the sausage and green pepper from there best."

Leaving Fiona alone in the kitchen, Debbie heads into the living room. Ian and Lip are each sitting on one end of the sofa with Liam in the middle. Debbie squeezes in between Ian and Liam, making as if she's just chosen one of two available spots, ignoring the empty armchair. She teases Liam and dotes on him, but assures that her leg and back are touching Ian's side, reminding him that she is there. She doesn't know if that's any comfort or if he even notices at all, but she does it.

Later, they sit around the table for dinner in their old places, as if no one ever left the house, no one ever went to jail, no one ever got sick, as if nothing much at all had happened since the last time they all sat here together.

Fiona keeps a steady chatter going, telling stories about funny customers at the restaurant. At first, Debbie thinks this is annoying, but she comes to realize that maybe faking a happy mood is a useful skill to have. It distracts them from the fact that Ian's just sitting in his chair in front of his untouched plate of pizza, eyes half-lidded, his attention somewhere none of them is privy. Fiona's letting Ian have his feelings and not allowing anyone a chance to prod him out of it for the sake of their own discomfort. Debbie thinks it's actually kind of brilliant.

And somehow, faking a good atmosphere seems to conjure one into being. Soon Lip's comparing Fiona's tales to his own stories of idiotic students at the cafeteria, and Debbie finds herself laughing. The mood continues to become lighter and more genuinely enjoyable until Carl flicks a chunk of sausage at Ian's head.

"Carl!" Fiona gasps, almost drowned out by Liam's giggles.

Ian blinks and turns to look at Carl.

"Your pizza's getting cold, dude," Carl says to him.

Ian glances down at his plate, as if to see if this is true. "Oh," he says, "Sorry." Then he picks up one of the squares of pizza and starts to eat it.

Fiona gives Carl a stern look, not sold on his methods even if she's not unhappy about the results. She leans over and uses her napkin to mop the splotch of tomato sauce off Ian's forehead and, miraculously, Ian sort of half-smiles at her ministration.

That half-smile feels like the most beautiful thing Debbie's ever seen. If Carl were anyone other than Carl, Debbie would hug him. Instead she just kicks him under the table and gives him a grateful smile. Carl looks incredibly pleased.

* * *

Debbie has a terrible time sleeping that night, unable to stop her heart from aching or her stomach from twisting or her thoughts from racing into terrifying territory. Eventually, she gives up and pulls on her robe and slippers.

As she passes the boys' room, she can see Carl sitting up in his bunk, keeping an eye on his sleeping brothers like a posted sentry. Ian had gone to bed after dinner and they'd all tiptoed around until Liam, finished with his bath, insisted on crawling in with him. Liam seemed to understand that Ian was sad and maybe was seeking to fix it the same way his older siblings do when Liam has a bad dream. Ian didn't protest, though, so Fiona allowed it. Now it appears that Ian and Liam are the only ones actually getting any sleep tonight.

In the kitchen, Debbie finds Fiona and Lip talking quietly. Lip's got his notes and books for school spread out in front of him on the table, and they've both got beers.

"Not sleepin' either, huh?" Fiona greets her as Debbie slumps down beside them.

"Nope," Debbie grumbles.

"Want a beer?" Fiona asks.

Debbie does her best to hide her surprise at this offer and recognizes it for what it is: a sign that, at this moment at least, she's as much of an adult as they are. "Nah," she replies casually, "That's okay."

Fiona shrugs and finishes her beer while Lip continues to gaze at his notes but Debbie can tell that he's not really seeing them. Then Fiona climbs to her feet.

"All right," she sighs, "I'm going to go try again."

She leans down and kisses the top of Debbie's head as she passes her and says, "Get some sleep tonight too, okay?"

She pats Lip's shoulder and heads up the stairs. When she reaches the top, they can hear her say quietly, "Go to sleep, Carl. Liam's got it covered."

Debbie sees Lip smile at this and she relaxes a little. "What're you studying?" she asks him.

"Uh, Physics."

"Didn't you take that in high school?"

"Yeah, but high school Physics isn't the same as college Physics. Cover a lot more stuff."

Debbie nods though it still seems like a waste that Lip would be taking the same class all over again. She glances at his notes and textbook and says, "But it's still easy, right? Everything's easy for you."

Lip raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of beer. "It's a lot harder than I thought it would be," he says as he sets his bottle back down.

"Why?"

Lip doesn't answer her at first and it seems like he's trying to figure it out for himself before he speaks. When he does, he says, "Well, McKinley was a pretty easy school. Poly's not. They expect a lot more, and you can't really fuck around. It's not the kind of stuff where I can get away with skimmin' the chapter twenty minutes before the test or startin' a paper the same day it's due."

The idea of going through school like this makes Debbie appalled. It must show on her face because Lip laughs at her and says, "Yeah. You got better study habits. It'll be a lot easier for you."

Debbie thinks about this for a moment and feels a different kind of anxiety than her usual brand. It feels like what she felt the first time she climbed up to high diving board at the pool and found herself looking down past her toes. The water had seemed so much farther away than she'd expected.

"You really think I'm gonna go to college?" she asks, scared just putting it into words.

"Of course," Lip replies, "Why wouldn't you?"

Debbie struggles to figure out the reasoning behind her long-held assumption. "Well. Frank and Monica didn't go to college. Or Fiona. Or Kev or Vee. Or Mandy. Or Sheila. Or Sammi. You're the only person I know around here who got to go, and that's just because Mandy lied for you, and you're a genius. I'm not a genius, and I don't think anybody's going to be lying for me."

Lip smiles. "Well, you've got a lot of people pulling for you, so I don't think you have to worry about that last part. Besides, getting into college isn't that hard. I mean, if you're a decent student, you can get in somewhere. Even if you're a lousy student, there's places that'll take you. Shit, the City Colleges pretty much  _have_  to take you. You're not gonna have any problem with that. It's gettin' someone to pay for you that's hard."

Debbie must look unintentionally glum as she considers this, because Lip rushes to reassure her. "But don't worry about that," Lip says, "We'll figure something out. Got a few years before we have to figure it out anyway. Until then, just focus on not screwing up in school. The better you do, the more options you're gonna have."

For some reason, Lip advising her to 'just focus on not screwing up' reminds Debbie of him telling Ian earlier to 'just be okay,' and how immediately negative Ian's response to this had been. It had seemed like innocuous advice, but Ian's reaction to it had surprised her. Ian was never one to aim just for 'okay,' though, so maybe it shouldn't have been so unexpected.

She thinks about it again, the full gravity of what Ian had attempted finally sinking in. Twenty-three years he was trying to give them, twenty-three years of a life he no longer felt had any value otherwise. Debbie is both touched and sickened at the thought.

"Do you think Ian's ever going to be happy again?" she finds herself asking.

Lip sets down his beer bottle and turns his attention completely toward her. "Yeah, Debs. Of course he will be. This…this disorder, it doesn't mean his life is over. It doesn't mean he's gonna be like he was tonight all the time. They're pretty good at handling this stuff now. Straighten out the meds, he could be great for a long time. Or if this happens again, so what? He'll know what to expect, what to do. Re-do the meds again, and he's good to go. It's like maintaining our furnace. It's got its issue, but we know what to watch for, adjust as needed, and it runs just fine."

Lip's light tone and adherence to logic are doing nothing to make Debbie forget Ian's misery. Ian doesn't want to be like their shitty furnace. He wants to be a state-of-the-art model. How is there even a possibility of reconciling this? It's so much more than just the disorder.

"Yeah, but," Debbie says hesitantly, "Even if he gets his meds good and everything, is he really gonna be happy?"

Lip sighs, finally understanding that Debbie is not asking for reassurance about the efficacy of treatment; she's asking for reassurance about her brother. "I think if he starts to feel like he has a little more control over what's going on with all this, he'll be a lot better," he says, "And if he can get some fucking confidence back."

Lip drums his pen against his open textbook and adds, like he's thinking out loud, "He really needs a goal."

"You think that's college?" Debbie asks. Now that the Army's out of the question, she's having a hard time figuring out what kind of goal Ian would find attractive. He never seemed interested in college for college's sake.

"Dunno," Lip says, continuing to drum his pen, "He never liked school all that much. It's not like college is some magic answer to everything. But I think there's some programs that might be good."

"Like what?"

Lip gives Debbie an appraising look, like he's uncertain whether to tell her what he thinks. Lip's never had any hesitancy in telling people what he thinks, but maybe being at school with so many other smart people, he's started to get more used to his ideas being shot down. He sips his beer and then says, "I could see him trainin' to be a fireman. Or an EMT. A program like that. Helping people, being a big fuckin' hero. He loves that kinda shit. And he wouldn't have to kill anybody for Uncle Sam to get his validation."

Debbie sits forward, instantly sold on this idea. "He'd be really good at that," she says.

"Yeah," Lip replies, "Think he'd like it too. But the minute I suggest it, you know he's gonna be dead set against it. Go out and become a paralegal or some shit just to show me."

"Yeah."

Lip laughs a little at their shared affection for their intractable brother. "Maybe you should put the idea in his head," he says, "Ian listens to you a lot more than he'd listen to me."

Debbie nods. Ian has a soft spot for her and she knows this. She's exploited it on many an occasion. Then she sits back in her chair and asks, "What do you see me doing?"

Lip smiles and considers this for a minute. He takes a sip of beer, then tips the bottle toward her. "You, Debs," he says, "Can do anything you want."

Debbie scowls, disappointed. "That's not a real answer."

Lip shrugs. "Best answer there is. And it's true too. Everybody knows it."

Debbie rolls her eyes, but inside she feels a weird mixture of pleasure and terror at this statement, back on the diving board again.

"Anyway, Debs, I gotta get back to studying."

"You care if I watch?"

"Watch me study?"

"Yeah."

"Knock yourself out."

So Debbie drawns her knees up onto the chair and keeps Lip company while he reads through the chapter and takes notes then goes back to consult his notes in order to answer the comprehension questions at the end. For the first time since Lip started college, Debbie allows herself to imagine being in his place, studying for her own classes, working toward bigger things. Maybe in a few short years this will be her life, not just an idle moment of fantasy. Or maybe things will be completely different. Maybe they'll even be better.

She watches Lip work until her eyelids get heavy and she starts to drift off. She is startled awake when she starts to slide off her chair and then Lip is there, helping her to her feet.

"Time for bed," he says softly, leading her to the stairs. She's almost as tall as he is now, so he doesn't pick her up like probably he would have before. Instead Lip just supports her and walks her to her bed.

"Go to sleep now," he advises her as he pulls the covers up over her, "No more worrying tonight."

"But there's so much to worry about," she replies, her tongue languid, her brain sleepy.

"There really isn't," Lip assures her, and it's the last thing she hears before she drops into the black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Avalonia320 for editorial advice and moral support.
> 
> As always, all comments/kudos/reviews are very appreciated. I love hearing what you guys think! You can also chat with me on tumblr as [Zebra Wallpaper](http://zebrawallpaper.tumblr.com)


	10. Strangling Doesn't Make Much Noise

Carl's in the bathroom when Debbie gets up, and as she waits in the hall for her turn, she peeks into the boys' room. Ian's still sleeping, face to the wall. Despite the summer heat, he's wrapped up tight with the sheet pulled nearly to his chin. Considering it's almost seven-thirty and Ian's usually up with the sun, this doesn't bode well. She knots her hands together nervously as Carl emerges from the bathroom.

"Move," he grumbles, pushing past her.

Debbie's concern is replaced momentarily with annoyance. As she stomps into the bathroom, she hears Carl say in a much gentler tone, "Ian? You getting up?"

She doesn't wait to hear the response to this question, afraid that there will actually be no response. Instead, she turns the water on full-blast and brushes her teeth as fervently as possible.

When she comes out of the bathroom, Carl's getting dressed and he slams the boys' room door in Debbie's face. She heads downstairs, muttering to herself.

It's just Fiona and Liam in the kitchen, but this is already more people around than Debbie's been used to in mornings this summer. Fiona must have bailed on her breakfast shift and decided to keep Liam home as well. Despite the circumstances, it's kinda nice not being greeted by an empty kitchen and cold dregs at the bottom of the coffee pot.

Fiona's frowning at her cellphone as she texts something and doesn't acknowledge Debbie, but Liam grins at her with a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Debbie wiggles her fingers back at him and pours herself a cup of coffee. The rest of the scrambled eggs are heaped in a sad little pile on a plate beside the stove and Debbie fights the urge to poke at them. She's never seen sorrier looking scrambled eggs before.

"I'd offer you some," Fiona says, setting down her phone, "But we only had two eggs and you wouldn't believe how much milk I had to use to stretch 'em that far. I'm kinda hopin' to entice Ian."

Debbie doubts you could entice anybody but Liam with those eggs, but she only says, "I'm not hungry anyway."

"You should eat," Fiona declares, "Want me to make some toast? We got cereal too."

Debbie's about to protest, but is saved from having to because Lip comes in then from the living room and Fiona's attention instantly switches to him.

"All right," Lip announces, "Called him in sick to work. Emailed my professor. Got them to squeeze us in with his doctor at one." He sets down his phone and resumes eating a bowl of cereal he'd apparently left on the table.

"Still no word from Mickey," Fiona says, "I'm starting to get worried about him."

"Fuck him," Lip replies as a he spoons some cereal hurriedly into his mouth and then talks around it, "Ian put  _him_  in charge of everything, chose him over us, and this is what he does when shit gets real? Just disappears? Fuck him."

Debbie opens her mouth to tell Lip that he's being a complete asshole, and he doesn't know what's really going on because he's never around anymore. But Fiona speaks before Debbie can and surprises her by saying almost exactly what Debbie was going to, only a little nicer.

"That isn't fair," Fiona says, "You're not here. You don't see how it is."

"Apparently, being here doesn't mean shit. How did you miss this happening again?" Lip snaps back.

Fiona's jaw drops with the accusation. "Excuse me? You've seen Ian as much as I have this summer. How'd  _you_  miss it?"

"I got alotta shit on my plate, okay?"

"And I  _don't_?"

Debbie watches them glaring at each other and just feels exhausted. "It's not like how it was before," Debbie says, hoping this will let them both off the hook and make peace because she can't take them fighting with each other right now, "It's not as obvious."

Lip tears his eyes away from Fiona and nods at Debbie. "Yeah," he says, gesturing emptily with his hands, "I think that's the drugs. Think they're…dulling it, or somethin'."

"So, you think they  _are_  working?" Fiona asks, happy to forget Lip's attempted guilt trip and trade it in for reassurance.

"Obviously not enough if they are," Lip replies. He resumes eating his cereal then says, "Maybe they just need to change the dose or add something to it. I don't know."

It's weird hearing Lip say 'I don't know' about something. It makes Debbie think that he's feeling in over his head a bit, maybe even scared. In a way, though, this almost makes her feel better. It's somehow heartening that she's not the only one afraid.

Fiona sighs then puts a hand on Debbie's shoulder and says, "This is normal. This just happens sometimes. It's okay."

"I  _know_ ," Debbie scowls over the rim of her coffee mug. She's read the same material they all have. She'd been reading it since back when it was just Monica who had it, and the rest of them couldn't have cared less about the books Debbie hauled home from the library. Plus she got the same song and dance from Lip last night. She really doesn't want any more empty assurances. She just wants everything to actually improve.

"Hey," Fiona says as Carl comes downstairs, "Got our shifts covered for tonight."

"Cool," Carl replies as he sits down to put his shoes on.

"Where you going?" Lip asks him.

"Out to look for Mickey."

Lip doesn't say anything to that, thank god. Carl finishes with his shoes and heads for the door, but Fiona reaches out to stop him. Carl looks back with annoyance, but he accepts the banana she holds out to him. He peels it, bites off half of it and then takes the rest with him.

"Mark my words," Fiona says after he's left, "That banana peel is gonna be out there on the back sidewalk, rottin'."

"Maybe Frank'll slip on it and die," Debbie says, thinking about Ian shoving him down the back steps the other night.

"We'd never be that lucky," Lip replies.

For a couple minutes after this, they slip into the rhythm of what a normal morning used to look like. Fiona chats with Liam as he finishes his eggs, then she shoos him to go watch cartoons as she cleans up his mess. Lip eats the rest of his cereal while gazing into space, plotting something out in his head. Debbie sips her coffee and finds herself, despite everything, wondering about Joaquin—where he was yesterday, whether he'll be back at the pool today, whether he'll even notice that she's not going to be there.

Then they hear the toilet flush from upstairs and Lip, Fiona, and Debbie all freeze.

A moment later, Ian clomps downstairs, frowning and cradling his injured right hand in his left. He's in a clean uniform, though he's unshaven. He looks exhausted despite having slept for nearly twelve hours.

"Morning, Sleepyhead," Fiona greets him, covering up the fact that the three of them have all have just visibly relaxed at the sight of him up and about.

"I can't find any goddamn Tylenol," he grumbles, throwing himself onto one of the barstools, "My hand's killing me."

"Must be out," Fiona says, "Want some eggs?"

Ian doesn't respond, but she sets the plate in front of him anyway.

Debbie rummages in her purse until she finds a little bottle and offers it to Ian.

"I'm not taking Midol," he replies after he's stared at it for a second.

"It's the same stuff," Debbie says.

"Yeah, but with added ingredients for bitchiness," Lip jokes, "Might not hurt."

Ian ignores him and says to Fiona, "There's nothing in the medicine cabinet. Like,  _nothing_. What are you doing with all that money?"

"All that money," Fiona laughs, "Yeah, I'm really rakin' it in servin' two-dollar slices of pie."

"No, no," Ian says, putting a hand to his head and closing his eyes, "The money I gave you. Jesus Christ, I could really use it if you're just gonna waste it anyway."

Fiona tilts her head. "What money?"

Debbie watches apprehensively, waiting to see if Ian's going to tell Fiona about his backdoor contributions to the squirrel fund. Debbie catches Lip watching him too. It's easy enough to get things past Fiona, but not Lip.

Ian seems irritated as he realizes his slip-up. "Never mind," he lies clumsily, "I'm…thinking of something else." Then he switches topics, eager to take Fiona's eyes off him, "I think Carl ran off with my razor. I don't know what he's up to, but it's probably not good."

Fiona hesitates just a beat too long before she nods, and realization dawns on Ian's face as he figures out why his razor is missing and why the medicine cabinet is completely empty.

"Shit," he says, standing up, "Guys…don't…just…just forget about yesterday, okay?" He goes to put his untouched plate in the sink, but he slops a bit of scrambled egg onto the linoleum in his agitated movement. He drops to his knees and scoops the spilled egg back onto his plate, awkward with his bandaged hand. Somehow more egg tumbles off the plate in the process, and they can all clearly see Ian's hands shaking as he attempts to corral all the watery blobs of egg while continuing to try and deflect their attention. "I was just really tired," he says, "Don't—you don't have to worry about me. I'm fine."

Lip squats down to help, but Ian stands up abruptly and sets the half-filled plate on the counter.

"I gotta get to work," he says.

Ian hurries toward the door and Debbie and Fiona both glance at Lip who grimly hustles to position himself in Ian's path.

"You're not going into work today, man," Lip says, taking on a familiar tone of authority, "You're seeing the doctor."

Ian sets his jaw tight in annoyance and says, "Mind your own business."

"No."

Ian grows visibly more irritated as Lip shakes his head and continues:

"No. I already did the whole minding my own business part. I'm done with that. I'm not letting you go through this shit alone anymore."

"Screw you," Ian mutters and he turns away, having apparently decided to leave by the front door instead.

But Lip calls after him, "I called you in sick at work and made an appointment with your psychiatric guy."

Ian's expression goes from annoyed to murderous as he spins back around. "What the fuck?" he demands.

Lip steals himself and puts his shoulders back, attempting, consciously or not, to appear larger. "Punch my goddamn lights out if you want," he says.

Ian shakes his head wordlessly, his Bambi eyes narrowed almost to slits. He has never looked so tall or broad as he does now, moving toward Lip slowly, looming over him.

"Just tryin' to help, man," Lip says, not taking his eyes from Ian's.

"Ian—" Fiona says, just as it looks like he might be about three seconds from decking Lip.

At the sound of her voice, Ian takes a step back. He continues to glare at Lip, though, and growls, "You didn't have any right to do that."

"You're right," Lip agrees, "But I did it. You see somebody bleedin' on the sidewalk, you don't stop and ask 'em first before you call an ambulance."

"You're not in charge of me," Ian says carefully, as if he's just barely holding onto his temper, forming his anger into words like little lead bullets, "You don't get to decide anything about my life."

"Yeah," Lip nods, angry now too, "You took care of that, didn't you? Running off and puttin' Mickey in charge of everything? Makin' it real loud and fuckin' clear that you're your own man now, and Mickey's your family, and we're just supposed to stay far the fuck away and never say anything unless you tell us we're  _allowed_  to. Well, fuck that. Mickey's not here. I'm steppin' in. I'm fucking helping you."

"I don't need help," Ian shouts, finally losing all semblance of composure. Then he amends this statement, "I don't need  _your_ help. I can get help myself. Okay? I don't need your help or Mickey's help or anybody's help. I'm not a kid. I can take care of myself."

" _Jesus Christ_ , Ian," Lip shouts back. Debbie is shocked to see that there are tears in Lip's eyes. His voice is hoarse as he continues, "I know you're not a kid. I know you're a big, fuckin' adult. And I know you don't want anybody's help. But I don't believe you that you're gonna get help. 'Cause you don't give two shits about yourself right now. When were you plannin' to get help, huh? Tomorrow? Next week? When you lose your job or you hurt yourself worse than you already have? When it gets so bad you think starvin' to death in your bed's a better option?"

Lip's voice breaks at that and he pauses for a moment before he whispers, shaking his head, "Stop being so fuckin' selfish and let me help you. Let me do  _something_."

"Let you boss me around," Ian mutters, almost to himself. But then his entire posture seems to change. He sinks from big and menacing to the broken, exhausted person he was last night. "I'm not trying to be selfish," he says quietly.

"I know," Lip replies, "But, Jesus. How would you feel if it was Debbie you saw in the kind of pain you were in last night. That you're still in now. Or Carl. Or Fiona. Or Liam. You wouldn't just stand by like a dummy while they were suffering. You'd do anything you could to help them, and you sure as hell wouldn't stop and wait for them to ask."

And suddenly the tears from last night have returned. Ian is tilting his head back and grimacing, trying to stop them.

Lip, always one to seize on a moment of weakness, continues forcefully, "How 'bout how you're goin' behind Carl's back, trying to pull strings to get him on the football team this year, huh? You're only doin' that 'cause you don't want him in the Army anymore than I do. You don't want those sick fucks anywhere near him."

Fiona cringes slightly, visibly guilty that her big mouth has been revealed. Ian doesn't appear to notice, though. He's still blinking back tears as Lip talks at him.

"Carl would be royally fuckin' pissed if he knew you were doin' that," Lip says, "But you don't care if he ends up pissed off, right? 'Cause it's a lot more fuckin' important that those bastards not get their goddamn hands on him. It's a lot more fuckin' important that Carl's safe."

Ian says nothing, closes his eyes as he loses the battle with his tears of rage and fatigue.

"Come on, man," Lip says gently, "You'd have done the same thing if you were in my position."

Ian seems to sink. "How would  _you_  feel?" he says to Lip, his voice small and trembling. It's his last grasp at autonomy, and he knows he's not going to win.

"I'd hate it," Lip says, "I'd hate it as much as you do. But I hope to hell somebody would give enough of a shit to help me anyway, whether I liked it or not. 'Cause I'd probably really need them to."

Ian wipes his face with his sleeve and turns away from Lip. He doesn't look at Debbie or Fiona as he trudges toward the living room in defeat. "Do whatever you want," he says, his voice strangled nearly to death, "You're the one who knows everything."

Lip stands there, glaring at Ian's wake. Then he wipes away his own tears roughly with the palms of his hands.

"Lip, don't—" Fiona starts to say, but cuts herself off as he pushes past her and stomps upstairs.

Alone in the kitchen, Debbie and Fiona look to each other uncomfortably as the newfound silence settles around them.

"That actually went better than I thought it would," Fiona says.

"They're gonna kill each other someday, aren't they?"

Fiona sighs and holds up her hands helplessly. Then she rests them on her hips and asks, "You gonna stay in your pajamas all day just 'cause you're off work?"

Debbie rolls her eyes but goes upstairs to dress, artfully sidestepping the eggs still spilled on the floor.

* * *

Fiona comes upstairs not long after Debbie, and they end up sharing the bathroom mirror while they do their make-up. When Fiona drops her mascara wand into the sink, Debbie hands it back to her without missing a beat and when Debbie begins to apply a new, cherry red lip balm she's never worn before, Fiona wordlessly hands her a more neutral, pinky balm instead.

As Debbie finishes her make-up and re-ties her ponytail, she asks, "How come you're not at work?"

Fiona smirks and she recaps her mascara. "Remember how I said yesterday that I didn't care if they canned me for bein' late?"

"They fired you?" Debbie says, feeling her stomach sink a little.

Fiona shrugs. "It was a shitty job anyway. And I still have my regular shift at Patsy's. That'll hold us 'til I get somethin' else."

"Sorry," Debbie says with some guilt. She doesn't think she could count the number of jobs Fiona's walked out on or lost because of them. And pretty much all of them she's  _taken_  because of them. Debbie thinks about the conversation she had with Lip last night about college, how he'd talked about how Ian and Debbie could use it to get someplace better, how yesterday they'd all seemed to acknowledge that it was something Carl and Liam and even Yevgeny Milkovich should try and shoot for too. Nobody had said anything about Fiona.

Debbie finds herself wondering, for possibly the first time ever, what Fiona would choose to do with her life if she didn't have the rest of them to worry about, if she didn't have the felony riding around on her back, if she'd never had to drop out of school back when Monica flaked off for good. Debbie wants to ask her this, but can't think of a way to put it that doesn't just remind Fiona of how much less of a future she's always had than everybody else. Still, it bothers Debbie that she has no idea what Fiona's answer to this question might be. What did Fiona used to dream about before it became clear that dreams were not something meant for her?

"Go keep an eye on Liam, okay?" Fiona says then.

It's clear to Debbie that Fiona's giving her a task because it's obvious that Debbie's worrying about something, and Fiona wants to distract her. Debbie bristles at this parental manipulation, but she tamps down on the urge to rebel. Instead, she decides to take the distraction. Fiona's not always wrong.

Debbie finds Liam sitting on the living room floor, entranced by  _Busytown Mysteries_. Ian's on the couch with his arms folded and his head bowed. His eyes are closed, and Debbie thinks that he is sleeping until she takes a seat in the armchair and he looks over at her.

"Why aren't you in Lincoln Park?" he asks.

"Elisa's got the day off," Debbie replies. It's only a partial lie. Elisa did take the day off, but only after Debbie called her in desperation last night. Debbie says nothing about this to Ian, nothing about how kind Elisa had been about the whole thing, how she'd offered to help, to drive them anywhere they needed to go, to put them in touch with anyone who could be of assistance. Debbie's not sure what Elisa thought was going on—even in her rattled state, Debbie had been careful not to give details—but Debbie was taken aback by how oddly important Elisa's offers made her feel. It's stupid, maybe, but it felt nice to have her situation taken seriously, like she wasn't just being some worrywart little kid.

Ian's eyes are already closed again. Debbie can't tell if he's sleeping or trying to imagine himself away from everybody or if he's in pain or just in deep thought. She takes the opportunity to get a good look at him, though. It's weird seeing him unshaven—Ian's always been meticulous about his grooming—and his face is still mottled and puffy from all the crying. Since he left the kitchen, he's discarded his uniform shirt and now is just wearing his uniform pants with his undershirt. The undershirt looks a little dingy for Ian's usual standards, and she suspects he's finally run through the clean clothes he's brought with him from home. Debbie squints her eyes and tries to determine if, dishevelment aside, he looks less healthy than he did earlier this summer, if there were other signs she should've picked up on. It's hard to tell, though.

Feeling the weight of Debbie watching him, Ian opens his eyes. Debbie turns her attention swiftly to the television, embarrassed at having been caught.

After a minute, she hears him speak. "Sorry if I scared you all."

Debbie looks back at him, surprised. She wants to assure him that he didn't scare them, but she also doesn't want to lie. Instead she says, "Sorry you're feeling so bad."

Ian deflects her sympathy by turning his eyes to the television. Debbie follows suit.

They watch the show without saying anymore for a while. Debbie's seeing the little characters singing and doing things, but her mind is not on solving whatever incredibly obvious preschool-level mystery it is that's playing out onscreen. She's thinking instead about what's going to happen when Ian goes to the doctor today, if it's really going to be as simple a fix as Lip seems to think. She's also remembering those weeks when Ian was adjusting to medication the first time, when he'd been capable of little more than just staring at the TV, how that had almost seemed to make him more ashamed than getting diagnosed with the actual disorder had. She's trying to decide if it's foolish to hope things might go a little easier this time. It doesn't seem fair that everything always has to be so hard.

"It's always Mister Fix-It," Ian says out of nowhere.

Debbie doesn't understand what he's talking about, then she realizes he's referring to Liam's cartoon. Mister Fix-It is indeed often at the center of the show's mysteries.

"Mmm," Debbie agrees.

"You'd think they'd catch on after a while," he says, "That should be the first person they check out."

And Debbie laughs at this. "But then there'd be no show," she replies, "It'd be done in, like, three minutes."

"Save everybody some time," he says.

Debbie grins, delighted at the normalcy of this conversation, then she looks up as Fiona comes in from the kitchen. She's carrying a couple pill bottles and a glass of Sunny Delight. She sets them on the coffee table and sits down beside Ian.

"Found the Tylenol," she says, "Also some Advil if you'd rather have that. And I think I can scrounge up a Vicodin instead, if it's hurtin' that bad."

Ian hesitates, as if this is some sort of trap laid out before him that he can't figure out. Then he says, "Tylenol's fine."

He picks up the bottle and starts trying to unscrew the safety top, clumsy with his bandaged hand.

Fiona leans forward to help him, but changes her mind. She sits back and lets him do it himself. It takes a bit, but he manages to get the cap off and shakes out a couple capsules.

As Ian swallows these, Fiona pats the couch cushion and says, "Here, Debs. Ian sandwich."

Debbie doesn't look at Ian's expression first to test the waters; she just does as she is told and wedges herself in on the other side of him. Fiona presses in tighter from the opposite end. Between the two sisters, they squeeze him enough that he is helpless to escape.

"Can I take ya to lunch before your appointment?" Fiona asks.

"No," Ian grumbles.

"Wanna go grocery shoppin' with me?"

"No."

"Hardly ever have a day off with you. Wanna go get our hair did at Vee's mom's place? You're lookin' a little scruffy."

"No."

Debbie gets in on the game and suggests, "We could go roller skating."

"Oh, that's an idea," Fiona says.

"Come on," Ian complains, "Stop."

Fiona stops pressing against him quite so hard but she doesn't scoot either. Debbie too remains tight between his side and the arm of the couch. She can feel his heart beating through his undershirt, unexpectedly slow and steady, like everything inside him is just fine.

They all gaze in the general direction of the TV for a bit until Fiona asks, casual as casual can be, "So, when you plannin' on goin' home?"

It's so obvious Fiona's trying to ask him about Mickey. Debbie tenses, waiting for Ian to blow up at Fiona or to go cold with her.

Instead, he asks in a small voice, "You kicking me out?"

"No, no," Fiona assures him, wrapping her arm around his arm and resting her chin on his shoulder, "You can stay as long as you want. Just…you gotta go home at some point, kid."

Ian's quiet for a bit, and Fiona doesn't push him. Debbie watches the two cartoon pigs arguing over something on the TV, takes note of how Liam's bobbing up and down in amusement at this.

Then Ian says, "Gotta find a new place to live, I guess."

Fiona interprets this as brightly as possible. "You guys gettin' a love nest all your own?"

"Nope."

" _Ian…_ " Fiona starts to admonish him, but he stops her.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

Fiona sighs. "Well, anyway," she says, "you better put your damn wedding ring back on before he sees you without it. Otherwise, you're gonna turn this into a much bigger spat than I think you bargained for."

"Too bad," Ian replies, "Can't."

"Why not?" Debbie asks, "You didn't lose it, did you?" She thinks about how proud Mickey had looked at City Hall when he'd surprised Ian with the rings, so pleased with his own romantic gesture.

Ian's jaw shifts from defiant to uneasy. He looks away from them and mumbles, "I pawned it."

Debbie and Fiona gape at him, in shock. Then Fiona slaps Ian upside the head.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she cries.

Ian just sits there, eyes practically burning a hole into the carpet as his sisters' eyes, in turn, burn holes in him.

"Don't worry about it," he manages to say eventually, "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters," Fiona says, aghast, "Why would you even say that?"

"'Cause it's over," Ian says, struggling to maintain his indifference, but his wavering voice gives him away, "Mickey and I are done. There's no point trying to fix it."

"Oh, please," Fiona says, "Stop being dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic," Ian declares.

Debbie can tell that, once more, he's on the verge of tears. She went her whole life without ever really seeing her brother show any kind of extreme emotion, and now over the past few days it's like he's constantly on the brink of drowning in feelings. Debbie's not sure how much of that is coming from his disorder and how much of it is the result of everybody pushing him to reveal so much more than he has ever been used to.

"I left," he says, "It's over. We're done."

"Ian," Fiona chides him, "You're married now. You don't get to lose your temper and walk away. You don't get to just  _disown_  Mickey 'cause you're pissed at him."

"Forget it," he says, closing his eyes gravely, "It's too fucked up, so I killed it. It's over."

"Please," Fiona scoffs, "I don't know much about marriage, but I think it takes more than walkin' out for a couple days to ruin one. Though I wouldn't start makin' a habit of it."

Ian puts his head back and stares at the ceiling. Fiona ventures a tentative cheerfulness.

"Mickey'll forgive ya," she says, "Don't worry."

He acts as if he hasn't even heard her. He's quiet so long without giving any indication of a response that Debbie shoots Fiona a nervous glance. But then he speaks up.

"I don't care if he forgives me. I don't wanna go back." He closes his eyes and admits, less icily, "I can't stand him worrying about me all the time. I can't take it anymore."

"What?" Fiona asks, "You can't take somebody caring about you?"

"It's not…it's…it's different. You don't understand what it's like."

"Yeah, I know I don't understand. None of the assholes I ever dated gave enough of a crap about me to love me like that. I'd kill to have somebody wanting to look after me."

"No, you wouldn't," Ian says softly, "It feels like shit."

Fiona reaches out to pat his hair in sympathy, but he jerks away from her touch.

"He doesn't treat me like me anymore," Ian spits out furiously, "I'm just another fucking baby he has to take care of. It's all he ever talks about now. 'Ian, you gotta be careful, Ian, that's too much for you, Ian it's time for bed, Ian, did you take your meds, Ian, let me use the fucking scissors for you, maybe you should take a nap, maybe you should slow down, maybe you should stay home, maybe you shouldn't get your hopes up, maybe you're pushing yourself too hard, maybe you shouldn't try to do anything, maybe you should let me wipe your ass for you 'cause you might get hurt…'"

He looks back at Fiona and says, "I don't wanna be with somebody who sees me like that. I don't want to be anybody's fucking responsibility. I wish we hadn't gotten married. I'm so stupid. Now he thinks he's stuck with me."

All Fiona's bossiness is gone. "Oh, sweetie," she sighs. She reaches instinctively to touch him again, but stops herself and sits back, at a loss for how to help.

Ian drops his hands into his lap. "It doesn't matter," he says resolutely, "He—it doesn't matter." He closes his eyes again and adds, "I'm so tired…"

"Ian?" Debbie asks hesitantly, having sat quiet this entire time.

He sort of grunts a response. Debbie takes it as the go-ahead.

"Maybe Mickey doesn't know how to treat you because you don't tell him what you want him to do. You never tell anybody anything."

Ian is silent.

"She's got a point," Fiona says. "How the hell's Mickey supposed to know what to do?"

It's unclear if Ian's listening or not. He seems to have crawled inside himself once more. Then he appears to come to a conclusion about something because he starts shaking his head and says, "I'm not going back. You can't make me."

Fiona exhales a deep breath. "Okay," she says, "Nobody's forcing you."

While her voice is gentle and reassuring, her mouth is settling into a hard, tight line. Then she climbs to her feet, signaling that the interrogation is over.

She turns back to him, and asks, businesslike, "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"The pawn ticket. I  _know_  you still have it."

Ian glares at her, but he sits forward and takes out his wallet. He rifles through a couple small bills and business cards until he finds a slip of yellow paper. He hands it over.

She unfolds it and smiles. "Surprised ya got fifty bucks for it," she says. Then she holds out her hand, but Ian looks puzzled. "Where's the fifty dollars?" Fiona asks.

"Oh," Ian says sheepishly, "I don't have it anymore."

Debbie sits up straighter, suddenly recalling the wad of cash Ian had given her the other day when he first showed up at the house, a fifty among the rest of the bills. It's all still stuffed under her mattress upstairs. She hadn't had any idea at the time how to sneak a fifty-dollar bill into the squirrel fund without Fiona noticing, so Debbie had stashed it, then she'd promptly forgotten about it.

"What'd you spend it on?" Fiona asks.

"I dunno."

Fiona continues to stand there, as if deciding whether or not to say something more to him. Then she tilts her head, indicating the direction of the kitchen and says to Debbie, "Come on. Help me run some errands."

Debbie extricates herself awkwardly from her place between Ian and the couch arm. She trips over his big, stupid legs and just narrowly manages to catch herself from falling, though she steps hard on Ian's foot.

"Fucking  _hell_ ," he roars, "Can everybody just leave me the fuck alone for a while?!"

" _Sorry_ ," Debbie snaps, "You know, just because you're sick doesn't mean you get to act like an asshole."

"Debbie," Fiona says sharply, "Leave him alone. Now."

Fuming, Debbie stomps to the kitchen. Behind her, Fiona's voice is all sweetness as she says, "Liam, get your shoes on, baby. We're going to the store."

When Fiona follows Debbie into the kitchen, however, all that sweetness has evaporated. Her face is the picture of barely contained irritation as she slams open the cabinet door and takes down the squirrel fund canister.

"I'm sorry," Debbie says, assuming that Fiona's mad at her for losing her temper with Ian.

"For what?"

But Fiona doesn't seem to actually care about a response so Debbie doesn't offer one, glad to be off the hook for a reprimand.

"Do me a favor," Fiona says as she pulls out a bunch of ones and fives and starts counting, "Learn to appreciate it when you've actually got somethin' good going on."

Debbie watches, bewildered. She has no idea what Fiona's talking about.

"Goddammit," Fiona mutters as she ends up at an unsatisfactory number of bills. She reaches back in the canister for more.

"What are you doing?" Debbie asks because Fiona keeps the grocery money in a separate envelope taped behind the fridge. They're not supposed to take anything out of the squirrel fund canister until the school year starts again and the first heating bill comes due.

"I gotta buy back Idiot's ring," Fiona explains impatiently.

Fiona counts out more bills, loses count and starts again. Debbie tries to decide if she should tell Fiona that probably half of those dollars actually came from  _Idiot_ , if it's time to finally tell her about Ian's backdoor contributions these last few months. On the one hand, the unknown source of all Ian's extra money is now striking Debbie as worrisome. Maybe he hasn't just been skimming it off the top of his paycheck like she'd assumed. Pawning the wedding ring might have been a one-time impulsive decision done out of spite, but maybe not. On the other hand, it's been clear from the start how important being able to contribute has been to Ian; Debbie doesn't want to take that away from him, no matter how dubious the origins of his funds, no matter how frustrating he can be sometimes.

Debbie takes a deep breath and decides it's time to lie.

"Ian gave the fifty to me," she says, carefully looking at the floor instead of her sister, "I asked him for money and he gave it to me."

"Debbie," Fiona hisses, appalled. Then she asks, "What did you need the money for?"

Debbie keeps her eyes anchored to the floor as she thinks up an answer. It has to be something that she'd be embarrassed enough about to keep a secret, but not something serious enough to alarm Fiona and turn this into a thing. With deep annoyance, she realizes she has no choice but to play the dumb thirteen-year-old girl card.

"I needed new bras," Debbie says, hating Ian just a little bit for driving her to this, "The bras you bought me are all cheap and crappy.  _You_  can get away with wearing stuff like that 'cause your tits are good. I hardly have anything. It takes better quality bras to do them justice."

Fiona stares at Debbie as if she's just sprouted antennae from her scalp and started dancing the Macarena.

"You asked your brother to pawn his wedding ring to buy you a push-up bra?"

"I didn't know that's how he got the money," Debbie says, defending her ridiculous story. Then she realizes she needs to cover Ian's ass as well and adds, "And he didn't know that's what I was going to spend it on. He didn't ask; he just gave it to me."

"Jesus, the two of you and your secrets," Fiona says, "You're exactly alike sometimes, you know that? What is it? Some weird middle kid-redhead-voodoo rule, or somethin'? 'Must never tell anybody anything'?"

Debbie looks back at her, perplexed. Red hair aside, Debbie and Ian are clearly nothing alike.

Fiona throws her hands up in disgust. "Why wouldn't you ask me? I'm your  _sister_."

"I didn't want to offend you," Debbie replies, despising every new lie that comes out of her mouth so effortlessly.

"But why on Earth would you ask  _Ian_  for the money?"

Debbie shrugs. "He makes more money than any of the rest of us do."

"Yeah, but, Debs, Ian's got a lot of medical bills and stuff he's gotta pay. Even with insurance, that ain't cheap. And don't think for a second all those Milkoviches and whores over there aren't using Ian as their meal ticket."

"But he likes to help."

"Don't take advantage of that," Fiona scolds, wagging a finger at her little sister, "Shame on you."

Debbie glowers and, ready to be done with this humiliating exercise, says, "Anyway, I didn't spend it yet. I still have the fifty dollars."

The instant relief on Fiona's face almost makes Debbie feel like the stupid lie was worth it. She can almost see the financial burden lifting from her sister's shoulders.

"I'll go get it," Debbie says as Fiona starts happily scooping up the bills and stuffing them back in the can.

In her bedroom, Debbie falls to her knees and shoves her hand between the mattress and the box spring, rooting around for the cash.

"What're you doin'?" Lip asks, leaning in the doorway.

"Nothing."

She locates the money and pointedly ignores Lip as she sits on her heels and peels off the fifty. Then she pushes the rest back under the mattress.

"Ian's been paddin' the squirrel fund, hasn't he?" Lip asks.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You his agent?"

Debbie looks at him coolly and says nothing.

Lip frowns. "Give me the money."

"No."

"I'm giving it back to him. He can't afford it."

"No," Debbie says, "And don't tell Fiona."

"Debs, come on. Hand it over. No more of this bullshit."

And Debbie loses it. "Can't you let him have anything?" she cries.

Lip is taken aback at this question. Debbie uses the opportunity to push past him, saying as she goes, "You're not in charge."

When Debbie comes downstairs, Liam's hopping on the kitchen floor, keeping each foot squarely in the center of each vinyl tile then jumping to the next set of tiles.

"You got it?" Fiona asks.

Debbie hands her the bill and takes Liam's hand. "Come on," Debbie says irritably, desperate to get out of the house, "Let's go."

* * *

As they walk in the direction of the neighborhood pawnshop, Fiona's mood seems to have lifted. Perhaps it's the relief of not having to eat into the already-skimpy squirrel fund to pay for Ian's rash decision, or perhaps it's just having gotten out of the house. Debbie herself certainly feels lighter getting some distance from Ian and Lip. She couldn't have stood one more minute of either of them's bullheadedness.

"I'll never understand where that comes from," Fiona remarks, shaking her head in wonder, "Ian was always the most even-tempered kid in the world, real patient with people, you know? But then every once in a while he goes full-on drama queen about somethin'. Like when he ran off with Carl? Remember that?"

"What?" Debbie asks.

Fiona looks disappointed. "I guess maybe you were too young to remember," she says.

"When was it?"

Fiona tilts her head back as she considers this. "Carl was just out of diapers, so I guess this would've been when Ian was seven? Eight? Got mad at Lip about somethin' and decided to run away from home."

Debbie frowns as she watches Liam skipping along a few paces ahead of them. She's not entirely surprised to have never heard this story—it's a period of Gallagher family history they don't talk much about. Things were really bad then.

"He took Carl with him?" Debbie asks.

"Yup. Made it pretty far too. Security picked them up at Lincoln Park Zoo, caught them tryin' to hide at closing. He had a whole plan worked out how they were gonna live there 'cause nobody would think it was weird to see kids there during school hours. They were gonna swipe food from the cafeteria and sleep in the reptile house 'cause it was the warmest…" Fiona looks amused as she makes a connection to the present, "Ian and his plans, huh?"

"Why'd he take Carl?" Debbie asks. This strikes her as the most bizarre element of the story, not that even at age seven Ian was already planning his escape. That part seems wholly believable.

Fiona smiles at the memory. "Said he didn't want to be a little brother anymore, just wanted to be a big one."

Debbie feels oddly hurt. "Why didn't he take me too?"

Fiona laughs. "I think Monica had taken you off with her somewhere. She was really into cartin' you around like a living doll at that point. You were way better at being a little girl than I ever was."

A vague memory of frilly dresses—way too many dresses, and someone complaining about how much money Monica had spent and Debbie feeling guilty—flits through her mind just then, but Debbie pushes it away. Instead she tries to picture her two brothers attempting to set up camp at the zoo. She remembers pretty well what Carl looked like when he was little, but her memories of Ian are suspect. She always remembers him having been very big and sophisticated and grown-up, yet anytime she sees a picture of him from their childhood, she is unnerved to find that he was just a skinny little freckle-faced kid. She wonders if someday she will look back on this period of their lives and realize something similar. Maybe eighteen isn't all that different from seven in retrospect. Maybe you're always just a kid.

They reach the pawnshop then. Debbie hangs back uncomfortably and observes a display case of religious-themed jewelry, keeping both Liam's hands in hers so he doesn't break anything. There are crosses and crucifixes (each one bigger and bloodier than the last), bejeweled Virgin Marys, and saints' pendants. There's also a dozen sets of rosaries made out of various materials including what looks like gold, pearl, and jade. They're all much more elaborate than the plastic beads on Debbie's rosary at home, given to her free by the Church when she had her First Communion.

Debbie's the only one of the Gallagher kids who had a First Communion, thanks to Monica having been on a religious kick the spring that Debbie was seven. Debbie went along with it for the promise of getting to wear a veil and a kid-sized wedding dress, but she'd also taken a strange bit of pride in the ritual, believing that it made her a bit morally superior to her siblings. She hasn't felt that way in a long time, though. Jesus and Mary have never appeared to give a damn that she took communion, or collected saints' candles, or begged for their assistance on any number of occasions. So Debbie gave up expecting a response, even though the instinct to pray under duress has never fully left her.

When the pawnbroker comes out from the back room, Fiona shows no unease. She lays the fifty-dollar bill and the pawn ticket on the counter and says, "I need this ring back now."

The proprietor barely glances at the money. He pulls a binder up from behind the counter and flips through it lazily until he finds the entry that matches the number on the ticket.

"Eighty dollars," he says.

"Uh, no," Fiona replies, pointing at the ticket, "The loan was for fifty."

"Interest and fees."

"Oh, come  _on_ ," Fiona scoffs, "Interest? It was three days ago."

"Interest and fees. Eighty dollars."

"It's a shitty ring. I don't even know if it's real gold."

"Eighty dollars."

Fiona glares at him. Then she turns to Debbie and says, "How much you got on you?"

"I dunno."

Debbie and Fiona both take out their wallets and start pooling their cash. In the end, they come up with sixty-eight dollars including Ian's fifty and Debbie's Ventra card that still has five dollars on it. Fiona slides the pile across the counter.

The pawnbroker raises an eyebrow. "That's not eighty dollars."

Fiona sighs and removes her earrings. She lays them beside the cash. They're real gold hoops that Jimmy gave her, and Debbie knows they're worth a lot more than twelve dollars.

The pawnbroker examines one of the earrings then sets it back down. With a heavy sigh, he takes a box out from under the counter, unlocks it, and checks the numbered tags on several rings. Then he sets Ian's wedding band on the counter.

Fiona snatches it up and instructs Debbie, "Take your Ventra card back."

Debbie does so, and grabs Liam's hand to lead him out. Fiona gives the pawnbroker the finger as they depart.

"Hey," Debbie says as they're walking away from the store, "Don't you want to get a pawn ticket for your earrings?"

"Nope."

"But Jimmy gave them to you."

"Yeah, and look at that—bastard finally came through for me on something."

Debbie frowns as they continue on. When Jimmy gave Fiona those earrings, Debbie had found it terribly romantic. Sometimes when Fiona wasn't home, Debbie would sneak into her room and try the earrings on, pretend that she was older and beautiful like Fiona with wealthy suitors falling over each other to give her fancy gifts. Debbie hasn't done that in a long time, of course, but it still depresses her a little to see her childhood symbol of love discarded on a pawnshop counter, never to be retrieved again. If Fiona doesn't believe in it anymore, what's the point in Debbie even trying to?

Fiona must notice Debbie's dismay because she says, "To be honest, I'm not really that interested in rememberin' Jimmy these days. Glad I could trade 'em in for a good cause, you know?"

Debbie looks down at Ian's ring as Fiona takes out a fresh Kleenex from her purse and wraps it up.

"You think that's a good cause?" Debbie asks.

Fiona places the makeshift package in her pocket and smiles. "I do."

Maybe Fiona still believes in love after all.

* * *

The house is empty when they get back, and Amanda's car is gone, Lip having evidently taken Ian for his appointment. Debbie makes macaroni with hot dog slices and they settle in for lunch in front of the TV.

They're just finishing up when Carl comes in the front door. Following right on his heels is Mickey, carrying Yevgeny on his hip. He plops the baby unceremoniously into Debbie's lap as he demands, "The fuck's Ian?"

Fiona sits back in surprise. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Police station. Where's Ian?"

"Oh, shit," Fiona says, dropping her fork into her macaroni, "They close you guys down?"

"Huh?"

"The rub 'n tug."

"What? No. Fuck that. We got an understanding."

"Then what'd they pick you up for?"

Mickey looks at her like she's insane. "I didn't get  _arrested_."

"Then what were you doin' at the police station?"

Mickey seems completely exasperated by Fiona's questions and he answers in a slow, sarcastic voice, "Somebody dropped a dime on my old man. They brought me in for questions."

At the mention of Terry, Fiona makes a face. "What he do now?"

" _Supposedly_ ," Mickey says with absolute contempt, "he drowned a guy who didn't pay up on some coke."

"I thought he was still locked up?"

"This was before. 2004 or some shit. Think he pissed somebody off inside and they ratted him out."

"So, what'd you tell 'em?"

"I didn't tell 'em shit. They dragged my ass up to fuckin' Green Bay and let me sit there all goddamn night. Wisconsin pigs, Chicago pigs…How many sets of fat-ass cops I gotta say 'I don't know nothin' to, huh?"

"Green Bay? Why'd they bring you up there?"

Mickey scowls at her continued stupid questions. "Cause that's where it happened."

"So, did he do it?" Carl asks.

Mickey shrugs. "Probably."

"You tell 'em that?" Fiona asks.

"I didn't say shit," Mickey replies with almost a bit of pride in his voice, "But I don't think he's coming back anytime soon. Not if they can use 'em to clear up their books. Sounds like they already got enough to do it."

Fiona smiles. "Well, that's good news, right?"

"Yeah, throw a fuckin' parade. Where's Ian?"

Fiona seems reluctant for a second then decides to tell him anyway. "He's at the doctor with Lip."

Mickey goes paler than usual, if this is even possible. "He okay? Carl said he was pretty fucked-up last night."

Fiona gestures helplessly with her hand. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, he's in one piece. He's not doing great. You know that. But he's okay."

"Where they go?"

"Uh, Northwestern Memorial, I think. Where his regular guy is."

Debbie can tell that Mickey's running the calculations in his head, trying to determine how long it'll take him to get up there, if he'll be able to get there before they leave to head back down here.

"They should be back soon," Fiona says, "Why don't you wait here?"

Mickey seems disinclined to just sit around and wait, so Fiona sweetens the offer. "How 'bout ya have some lunch?"

It's clear by the look on his face how hungry he is. Still, he's hesitant. So Carl takes charge.

"You got more of that?" Carl asks Debbie, indicating her plate.

"On the stove," she replies.

"Come on," Carl says. Mickey follows him obediently into the kitchen.

Debbie sets Yevgeny down on the floor to play with Liam's toys and gives Fiona a stern look.

"Ian's not gonna be happy when he gets back and finds Mickey here," Debbie says.

Fiona shrugs. "Ian's not gonna be happy today period." Then as she gets up from the couch she nods toward Yevgeny and says, "I should probably get him some lunch too."

All six of them end up finishing lunch in front of the TV together. Nobody says much as they sit through  _Inside Edition_  and then  _Jeopardy_. The only real source of entertainment other than Alex Trebek is the fact that Liam's decided that Yevgeny is a living toy and keeps insisting on playing with him as such.

It's just before 4 when a car doors slam outside and they all faintly hear Lip lecturing Ian about something. Debbie peers out the window and sees them both walking up from the curb, Ian with his head bowed, the way he always does when Lip's been yammering on for ages.

Mickey's on his feet and out the door in a flash, shoving Lip out of the way as he reaches the front walkway. Ian freezes immediately upon seeing him and the two have a stand-off for a moment, glaring at each other. Lip sidesteps them and heads into the house, shaking his head.

Then the screaming starts.

"The fuck you think you're doin', pullin' this shit? I ain't playin' no more. Time to get your ass home!"

"Fuck off! All right?! Leave me the goddamn fuck alone!"

"No fuckin' way, asshole. No fuckin' way!"

"Go fuck yourself!"

"Fuck you!"

"No, fuck  _you_!"

"What the hell's your problem, man? You gone off your meds? You know you ain't 'sposed to be fuckin' around with that shit."

"Go to hell, Mick. Just fuck off and go to hell!"

Fiona takes the remote and turns the volume all the way up on the TV, drowning out their voices, except for the occasional most outraged 'fucks.'

"Sure is fun mindin' our own business, huh, guys?" she shouts cheerfully, pulling Debbie and Carl back toward the couch.

Lip takes a seat on the arm of the sofa, keeping an eye on the fight as he lights a cigarette. Fiona doesn't even bother to tell him to take it outside to smoke.

"They should get some word games or somethin' on their phones," Lip remarks over the roar of the television, "Build their vocabularies."

The glass in the window shakes as either Ian or Mickey shoves the other one into the front wall of the house.

"Shit," Carl says in awe.

"Think we should intervene?" Fiona asks.

Lip shakes his head, still watching out the window. "They're pretty evenly matched." He sits back sharply in vicarious pain and says, "Ooh! Ian just landed a really good right hook."

"Is Mickey okay?" Debbie asks.

Lip looks impressed as he continues to watch and says, "He's a scrapper."

Lip turns away from the show outside, observes the commercial on the TV and asks, "What're we watchin'?"

"Final Jeopardy," Fiona replies, doing her best not to notice the sound of somebody obviously getting thrown against the railing on the front steps.

"What's the category?"

"Uh…" Fiona is unsuccessful in trying to remember.

"Civil War Battles," Debbie helpfully supplies.

Lip smiles a little at this and settles in with the rest of them as the show returns and Alex gives the clue.

Since none of them actually know the answer, they start shouting out responses that are obviously wrong. They get caught up with trying to top each other until Fiona starts desperately shushing them. She turns down the volume of the Jeopardy 'thinking' music and they all hear the same thing at once: silence.

"They strangling each other?" Carl asks, "Strangling doesn't make much noise."

Lip returns to the window and they all wait anxiously for his report.

"Shit," he mutters.

"What?" Fiona asks, "What's happening? Somebody get hurt? Is Ian okay?"

"Maybe I'm misreading the body language," Lip says, "But I'd say they're about twenty seconds away from bare-ass humpin' on the front lawn."

Debbie and Carl scramble to the window, ignoring Fiona's objections.

Outside, Ian has Mickey backed up against the fence. Their hips are locked into each other and they are, from the looks of it, devouring each other's mouths while both attempting, with varying levels of success, to tear each other's clothes off. Ian's undershirt is hiked up around his shoulders. Mickey's belt is half pulled-out from his belt loops, and he's lost a shoe somewhere along the way. Mickey's struggling to get Ian's shirt off with one hand, using the other to fumble with Ian's belt. Ian seems to be under the impression that if he just pulls down on Mickey's tank top long enough, it'll simply fall off. Debbie goes hot with embarrassment and brings her hand to her mouth as Mickey grabs Ian's ass.

"Enough!" Fiona cries, yanking Debbie and Carl away from the window by the back of their collars. "You too," she says to Lip. "Give them their privacy."

"They're on the front lawn," Lip protests, but does move away from the window, not especially eager to see his brother getting it on with his brother-in-law.

They all settle sort of uncomfortably back onto the couch as Fiona turns the volume back up.  _Jeopardy_  has ended without them ever finding out the correct answer and  _ABC Eyewitness News_  is now on. Fiona takes a fork away from Yevgeny and sets it on the coffee table where he immediately tries to grab for it again.

"Does this mean they made up?" Carl asks.

"Who knows," Fiona replies.

Debbie sits between Carl and Lip and thinks about how Ian's seemed constantly on the brink of tears for the past couple days, practically vibrating with more emotion than he'd ever asked for. She wonders if his passion for Mickey is the same thing. Is it more now, like how everything is more for him right now, or is it always like that, just under the surface, always ready to bubble over? Is there a line where Ian's brain stops and his heart begins, or is it all just forever a jumble? And is he the only one who gets to feel something like that? She doesn't think she's felt anything quite like that for someone else yet, but she thinks now that she'd sure like to know what it feels like.

The front door slams open and they sit up to attention. Mickey marches in, pulling Ian behind him. They're both red and raw around the mouth and have hastily shoved their clothes back into place. Debbie's pretty sure they didn't get to where it seemed like they were heading. Maybe they actually remembered they were on the lawn.

"Um," Ian says, eyes lowered, "I'm going home." His face is streaked with tears and Debbie could swear he is trembling a bit, but he looks more awake than he has in days.

"You sure?" Fiona asks, ignoring Mickey's dagger eyes.

"Yeah," Ian replies. "I'm gonna get my stuff."

He heads up the stairs and Mickey stands there looking uneasy.

"You call us if things aren't going so well, okay?" Lip says.

Mickey frowns at him.

"Gimme your phone," Lip says and, surprisingly, Mickey obliges.

"I'm puttin' in my number," Lip explains as he types, "And Fiona's and Debbie's. You got Carl's already, right?"

Mickey cocks his head slightly, indicating in the affirmative.

Lip hands the phone back to him, then takes out his own phone and hands it over. Mickey continues to look confused. "I want your number, man," Lip says.

Mickey gives him a sardonic smile and types the number in. Then he hands it back and says, "We free to go now? Or is there a questionnaire I gotta fill out too?"

"That should do it," Lip says as Ian comes down the stairs with his kit bag over his shoulder.

Ian seems surprised when Lip catches him and hugs him. Lip says something into Ian's ear that Debbie can't hear. Ian nods.

Then Ian holds a hand up in weak farewell and says, "See you guys later."

Mickey puts his arm around Ian's shoulder, leads him out the door and, just like that, they're gone.

The news is still blaring at top volume behind them, but nobody says anything, not even Liam. Then the door opens and Mickey hustles back in. He steps purposefully across the room, scoops up Yevgeny, and, ignoring them all, heads right back out. It would be funny if they weren't all suddenly feeling so depressed.

Having Ian gone again seems to have the same effect it did the first time. It feels immediately like there is a gaping absence, and the sibling unit, as if on cue, begins to disperse. Carl wanders upstairs, texting someone along the way. Lip says something about needing a drink and takes his schoolbooks with him as he heads out to the Alibi.

Fiona busies herself with stacking up the dirty lunch plates, and asks Debbie, "Would you watch Liam if I went over to Vee's for a bit?"

"Sure," Debbie shrugs, not really having anywhere else to go. She's not any more eager than the rest of them to sit around here, though, thinking about the fact that Ian's gone again, his life once more completely out of their hands.

But Fiona straightens suddenly and says, "Oh, shit."

"What?"

"The ring."

"Oh, crap!" Debbie says. She jumps up. "Give it to me. I'll catch him."

"Shit," Fiona repeats as she digs the ring out of the pocket in her cut-offs and hands it to Debbie, "Don't let Mickey see."

"I won't."

Debbie propels herself out the front door and down the steps. She pounds down the sidewalk, the soles of her cheap gym shoes doing little to make it feel like it's not her bare feet slapping against the pavement. She runs the length of Wallace Street, careens around the corner, and finally catches sight of them two blocks up.

"Ian," she tries to shout, but she's out of breath and it comes out a whisper. She continues running, closing the distance between them, but then she can't run anymore. She bends over and puts her hands on her knees, feeling like she's going to puke.

He must have heard her footfalls or maybe her panting because Ian's turned around and he and Mickey are walking toward her. "What're you doing, Debs?" Ian asks.

Debbie's momentarily glad she has no breath to speak with because she also has no cover story prepared yet. She tries desperately to think of some pretense for being able to slip Ian the ring without Mickey seeing what she's doing or being suspicious. "I need to tell you something," she manages to squeak out after a second.

That seems to do the trick, because Ian steps closer toward her while Mickey holds back, repositioning Yevgeny on his hip.

"What's up?" Ian asks, leaning down as he reaches her.

Debbie dithers briefly, all too aware of the fact that Mickey can clearly hear them from where he's standing.

Once more, hating herself a little, she improvises. "I…I love you," she says.

She gives Ian the most awkward hug she's ever given him as subterfuge for pressing the ring, still wrapped up in the Kleenex, into his hand.

Ian is stiff in her embrace, but answers back, somewhat puzzled, "Love you too."

"Jesus Christ, you Gallaghers. Fuckin' Hallmark movie out here."

Ian walks back toward Mickey, and Debbie can see his thumb tracing the hard object in his palm, trying to figure out what she's given him without looking at it. As he realizes what it is, Ian bounds back to her and hugs her for real this time.

"Thank you," he says, kissing the crown of her head.

"Thank Fiona," she says as he steps back.

He nods and gives her a weak smile. As Ian returns to Mickey once more, Mickey rolls his eyes and says, almost tenderly, "Come on, Asshole."

"I love you too, Mickey!" Debbie can't resist shouting after him in the most saccharine voice she can manage.

Mickey turns back around specially to give her the finger, and Ian actually laughs.

Debbie takes her time walking back to the house. She keeps hearing Ian's little, unforced laugh in her head, and she feels…not exactly triumphant, but perhaps hopeful. They have done what they could today, even if it feels like nothing. It might, for now, be enough.

* * *

That evening, Debbie sits on the couch, fooling around on the laptop while she listens to some of the music Matty gave to her. He might be a dipshit, but she has to admit that she really likes a lot of the stuff he's introduced her to.

Liam's chattering to himself while playing with the Fisher-Price train set Amanda bought him, and the house feels cozy. It's actual more normal not having Ian here or having everyone home and in a state high tension. Debbie's almost glad to return to the boringness of babysitting even if it is a Friday night and, according to everybody from school's Facebook updates, there's a couple of killer parties Debbie ought to want to be at.

Debbie's in the midst of trying to determine if Joaquin is at any of these parties when a loud, reverberating thud causes her to almost drop the laptop. Liam's knocked over the guitar Matty gave Debbie. It's just been sitting in the corner of the room for the past few days and Debbie had forgotten all about it until now.

"Liam, be careful," Debbie says as she goes over and leans the guitar against the wall again.

"Play a song!" Liam demands, having now realized what the guitar is.

"I don't know how," Debbie replies.

"Play like The Wiggles," Liam explains, looking confused as to why Debbie hasn't figured this out.

Debbie giggles at this. "It's not that easy," she says.

She returns to the couch and Liam, only briefly disappointed, returns to his train. But then an idea occurs to Debbie. She opens a new tab, turns off the music, and goes to Youtube. She types in "Learn to Play Guitar."

She lands on a pretty good series of videos after a bit of searching and re-watches them several times before she works up the nerve to set up the laptop on the coffee table and bring the guitar over to the couch. But when she attempts to play the first chord—C again, like Matty had tried to teach her—the guitar sounds terrible. So she spends another twenty minutes looking up a good video on tuning your guitar and following the steps until her guitar sounds a lot closer to the one in the video.

By this point, Liam's gotten sleepy and passed out on the carpet beside his train. Debbie doesn't have to worry about disturbing him, though, because it's an electric guitar and she's got no amp so it's hard to make it do anything remotely loud. She ends up watching videos, playing along haltingly, watching more videos, and playing along less haltingly for several hours. She doesn't realize how late it's gotten until Fiona lets herself in and seems surprised to see Debbie up.

"Were you just plannin' to let Liam sleep on the floor all night?" Fiona asks accusingly, heading over to pick him up.

Debbie ignores the question and says, "Fiona, look."

Debbie then proceeds to play a terrible rendition of  _You Are My Sunshine_  rife with errors and multiple starts and stops. Fiona appears unimpressed.

"That's great, Debs," she says, helping a sleepy Liam to his feet, "Hey, Little Guy. Let's go up to bed, okay?"

As Fiona leads Liam up the stairs, Debbie sets the guitar aside. It was a stupid idea anyway and her fingertips are throbbing. She picks up her phone and starts scrolling through all the Instagram party updates, feeling lonely and ugly and crabby.

After a bit, she's not sure even how it happens, but Debbie's got the guitar back in her lap. She's playing  _You Are My Sunshine_  over and over again, determined to get it perfect. She actually reaches a point where she's got it down pretty good and is wondering why Fiona couldn't have walked in now to hear her. As if she's willed it into happening, the front door opens, though it's not Fiona who comes home this time; it's Lip.

He kicks off his shoes wobbily, throws his backpack onto the armchair and collapses onto the couch beside Debbie. He reeks of whiskey.

"That you playin'?" he asks stupidly, as if it would've been someone else he heard playing guitar while he was unlocking the door.

"Yeah," Debbie says.

He does a 'continue' motion with his hand and slurs, "Show me what you got."

"I only know one song so far."

"I don't care."

So Debbie plays  _You Are My Sunshine_. She only has one false start and this encourages her so much that she goes from simply humming the melody under her breath to actually singing the words softly. Lip lays his head back and smiles as he listens.

When she finishes playing, he asks, "You learn that because of Monica?"

Debbie frowns. She's only picked this song to learn tonight because it happened to be what the geeky folk guy in the guitar videos was using as a demonstration. How had she completely overlooked the fact that this used to be Monica's song of choice when singing her babies to sleep?

"It was just easy to learn," Debbie says.

Lip nods. "Play it again," he says.

She does as he asks. She plays it pretty well this time and sings the whole thing, although now she feels a little self-conscious about the song and its unintended memories. Lip wears an expression on his face while she's playing, though, that indicates this is the loveliest rendition of the most beautiful song he's ever heard. He is very, very drunk.

Debbie finishes her encore performance and sets the guitar down, hoping to discourage him from requesting more.

Lip is quiet, though, thinking to himself about something. Then he turns his head toward her and asks, "Why's life gotta be so fuckin' sad all the time, huh?"

"I don't know."

They don't say anymore for a while until Lip plants both his hands on the couch cushions, as if bracing himself on a lurching ship.

"I don't think I'm gonna make it upstairs," he says, "Mind if I take the couch?"

"Nah," Debbie replies. She closes up the laptop and gingerly lays the guitar back in its corner.

As she approaches the stairs, however, she has a change of heart. She retrieves the guitar and carries it up to her room with her. She might just want to try learning a different song before she gets too sleepy.

* * *

The next morning is Saturday and Debbie and Carl head over to the Milkovich house. They've found one of Ian's uniform shirts half-under the couch at the Gallagher house, and the pretense of their visit is the need to return it.

One of the Russian girls lets them in. There's a brand-new TV where the old one used to be and a couple of the girls are eating in front of it, watching that show where stupid rich people cry over wedding dresses. Debbie notes that there are at least six more identical TV sets still in their boxes stacked behind the sofa. Somebody intercepted a shipment.

They find Mickey at the kitchen table, frowning over a pile of print-outs with tiny type from the doctor's office and several pill bottles he's sorted into groups. Mickey's got reading glasses on like the kind they sell in the bin at Osco, and Debbie has to stop herself from giggling at the absurd sight. Carl apparently has seen them before because he doesn't even crack a smile.

"He ain't up yet," Mickey says in greeting and takes a swig from his coffee cup.

"It's almost noon," Carl says.

"Yeah, I know." Mickey glances up at them both briefly, and his eyes look a little defeated. He returns his attention to the paperwork and flips over one of the pages. His forehead accordions into a series of wrinkles as he finds still more tiny print covering nearly every inch of the page.

"I'm getting him up," Carl announces. He doesn't wait for permission or discouragement, just turns on his heel and makes his way to Ian and Mickey's bedroom.

Mickey watches him go, then gets up from the table. "Want coffee?"

"Sure," Debbie replies. She accepts the cup that Mickey pours her and asks, "So, how was last night?"

Mickey leans back against the sink with his arms crossed and doesn't look at her as he speaks. "He took his meds, ate some dinner. Coulda been worse."

"That's good."

"Yeah." He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. Debbie wonders if Mickey even slept or if he sat up all night to keep watch over Ian. Somehow she suspects the latter.

Debbie wraps both her hands around the mug now, appreciating the warmth even though she doesn't want to drink the coffee and only accepted it to be polite. She's steeling herself for the next question, afraid that Mickey's going to bite her head off because it's none of her business. She can't  _not_  say something, though, because it's really important, and she doesn't trust that Ian  _will_  say something.

"So, um," she asks, "Did you guys talk at all last night? Like, about…everything?"

Mickey glowers at her. "Don't know if you noticed, but your brother ain't really been in a chatty mood lately."

"I know," Debbie sighs, trying to figure out how to push this without telling him things that Ian really needs to say to Mickey himself, "But you guys really need to talk."

"Yeah, no shit," Mickey agrees. As he makes his way back to the table, he continues, "It's fucked-up. He ain't got no problem saying 'I love you' and all that shit, ain't go no problem telling me stupid stories and yakkin' 'bout you guys for hours, but you try and ask him what's going on in his head, and he turns into Fort Fuckin' Knox. Then when somethin's really bothering him? Adios, man."

Debbie bites her lip as she thinks. Then she asks, "You ever talk to him with somebody else? Like, go with when he goes to therapy?" She knows from what she's read that sometimes they encourage patients to bring family members and partners with them to therapy. Maybe if Ian's already being forced to open up, he can tell Mickey all the things he's not willing to say normally.

Mickey glances at her from under his brow, and Debbie can tell he's measuring out what's safe to tell her and what might be more than Ian would want. It's probably all more than Ian would want, really. Mickey seems to come to the same conclusion and decide that if he's in for a penny, he might as well be in for a pound.

"Went with him a few times," Mickey admits, "Stopped 'cause he said he didn't like me bein' there while he had to talk about all that personal stuff. I didn't mind going. You know, whatever it takes. But he didn't like it. Kept makin' a big fuckin' deal about it, then we'd go and he'd sit there like a dummy the whole time, not say anything, so what's the point? I stopped going just so he'd start talkin' again." Mickey shakes his head, bewildered, "Okay to say all that shit in front of strangers, but not me."

And Debbie doesn't have an answer for that. She doesn't know how to fix Ian and Mickey. She just hopes they can stick it out long enough to figure out how to fix themselves.

She changes the subject and asks, "You think he can go back to work on Monday?"

"Worry about that on Monday."

Debbie nods.

After an awkward minute of silence, Mickey returns his attention to the paperwork, but he asks, "What's up with you? Still holdin' hands with that pervert?"

Debbie's eyes go involuntarily wide. Mickey Milkovich is attempting to make small talk with her by inquiring, as politely as seems possible for him, about her love life. If she'd been told a year ago this would happen, she would've laughed herself silly.

"We broke up," she says.

"Good."

" _Thanks_ ," Debbie says. She can't help but add, even if it's not quite true, "For your information, I'm sort of seeing a lifeguard now. He's sixteen."

"Yeah, well, make sure you use your girl shit, all right?"

Debbie cocks her head in confusion. "Girl shit?"

Mickey waves his hand over the paperwork. "You know," he says, "The pill."

"Oh my  _god_ ," Debbie says, utterly mortified.

"Hey, I ain't sayin' it for me," Mickey clarifies, "Brother of the Year's convinced you're gonna get knocked up and drop outta school."

Debbie is appalled. "Why would he think that?" she asks.

"Cause you're all innocent and shit, and you like babies too much."

"That's ridiculous," Debbie scoffs. Then she adds with petty bitterness, "Ian likes babies more than I do."

"Yeah, and he ain't in danger of poppin' one out anytime soon."

"Oh, my god," Debbie groans again. She doesn't remember the last time she was this embarrassed.

Mickey, the shit, seems amused by the whole thing. Smiling, he inclines his head in the direction of the bedroom and says, "Should go check on your brother."

Debbie's not certain which brother he's referring to, but she takes her coffee with her and heads down the hallway anyway. A bit of dread is boiling up in the pit of her stomach. She doesn't want to see Ian if he's at his worst. She doesn't want to see Carl trying and failing to get a response. She doesn't want to see it, but she goes anyway because she has to.

In the bedroom, the curtains are drawn and it's dim. Ian's lying on his side under the covers, his back to the door. She doesn't see Carl at first, then realizes that he's on the other side of the bed, sitting on the floor so that he's eye level with Ian. Holding her breath, Debbie walks around the bed and squats down beside Carl. To her surprise, Ian is awake and making eye contact with them. He looks sleepy, but his eyes don't have that frightening empty quality they did all those months ago.

"Hey, Ian," Debbie says, holding up the mug, "I brought you some coffee."

"I don't want any," Ian mumbles, closing his eyes. Then he adds as an afterthought, "Thanks."

Debbie looks to Carl with her eyebrows raised. He smiles back at her. Ian is communicating with them, at least. It feels like a minor miracle.

"You wanna come watch TV with us?" Debbie asks, "The Little League World Series is starting in a bit."

"Shit, yeah," Carl adds with enthusiasm, "Jackie Robinson West versus a bunch of dumb white kids from Nevada. It's gonna be a bloodbath."

Ian doesn't respond for a bit, but then he says, "I'm pretty tired, guys."

Debbie looks to Carl again, but he doesn't know what to do anymore than she does. So she just puts her hand on Ian's shoulder and says, "Don't sleep too long, okay? Please?"

Ian doesn't respond or open his eyes again, and it's unclear whether he's already drifted back to sleep or whether he's just unwilling to commit to that promise.

Debbie's at a loss for what else to do, so she and Carl leave him alone.

Back out in the living room, the whores have made themselves scarce, perhaps shooed off by Mickey. Mickey's sipping a beer and flipping channels with practiced nonchalance, though he looks at them with intense inquiry as they emerge from the hall.

"He wants to sleep," Carl says, answering Mickey's unasked question and being met with swift disappointment.

Mickey returns his attention to the television, as if he couldn't care less about any of these damn Gallaghers.

"I'm starving," Carl announces. Then to Debbie he says, "Go make lunch."

Debbie would protest, but she also would much rather eat lunch she made than anything Carl would put together. She goes into to the kitchen to see what's available. The best she can accumulate is the end third of a loaf of bread, a few slices of pathetic lunchmeat, and mayonnaise. She turns it into four of the saddest sandwiches ever created, stacks them on the only clean-looking plate she can find, and brings it back to the living room.

"Here," she says, plopping the plate down unceremoniously on the coffee table next to somebody's hash pipe and lighter.

"That looks like ass," Carl says.

Mickey has no such compunction. He grabs one of the sandwiches and tears off a huge bite.

Debbie sits down beside Mickey and takes a sandwich as well, though she only takes one small bite before she decides she's not really hungry. Why does everything in this house have to be so gross?

They watch the pre-game commentary, and then the event itself begins. It's not quite the Southside massacre they'd expected, but it's a pretty exciting game nonetheless, and it's novel seeing kids their age from their side of town playing baseball on national television. Debbie finds herself far more engrossed than she expected to be.

About thirty minutes in, they all look up as Ian shuffles out from the bedroom. He walks to the bathroom first, and when he comes back out, he stands in the hallway for a moment, clearly torn between returning to the safe cocoon of bed and joining them in the living room. He chooses to join them.

He's moving in a vaguely zombie-like fashion and cradling his injured hand. He sits down on the other side of Mickey and announces, "I want the Tylenol."

"All right," Mickey says, patting Ian's knee. He gets up and goes into the kitchen where they can hear him unlock the gun cabinet. For a moment, Debbie fully understands Ian's irritation with them all. It's fucking  _Tylenol,_  and this is the second time in two days Ian's had it kept away from him by concerned family members. It must be humiliating.

Mickey returns with the Tylenol, but he's also carrying the other pill bottles and the paperwork. He dumps it all onto the couch and starts rifling through it.

"What time is it?" Ian asks.

"Almost one," Carl replies.

Ian plucks one of the orange prescription bottles from the mess, glances at the label, and says, "I'm supposed to take this one."

"You sure?" Mickey asks, grabbing up the papers, looking for confirmation.

"Yeah," Ian says. There's a tone to his voice that's clearly telling Mickey to stop.

Mickey doesn't catch the message at first. Then he does. He gathers up the bottles and the papers to return them to the kitchen, but he can't help but ask, "Just that one?"

Ian meets his eyes and holds them for a second. Then he says, "For now. Yeah."

Mickey carries the pile of stuff back to the kitchen while Ian takes one of the prescription pills out, as well as two Tylenol. Mickey returns with a bottle of beer and Ian takes his medicine. Mickey settles back in between Ian and Debbie and they all watch the game.

Ian doesn't react to the game the way the rest of them do: shouting, cringing, pumping their fists into the air every time Chicago makes a particularly good play. He sits there, looking a little glazed and a lot tired. It's clear he would rather be in bed. And it's also clear that he is making a valiant effort not to give in to that desire.

At one point, Mickey, who is thoroughly enjoying the game, turns to Ian and asks, "Remember when we played against each other in Little League?"

There is a bit of a delay before Ian responds, like his reactions are being brought to them via satellite. Then Ian raises an eyebrow. "I remember," he says, "Thought  _you_  didn't remember."

Mickey takes a sip of beer and smiles. "I remember," he says softly.

When a commercial break comes on, Mickey offers Ian the plate of sandwiches. Ian holds up his hand and pushes it away.

"Yeah, those sandwiches  _suck_ ," Carl says.

Debbie flips him the bird.

"I don't know what your problem is," Mickey remarks, taking another sandwich and biting off a third of it. As he chews, he gives Debbie a nod of appreciation for her effort.

Someone starts rapping on the front door and Mickey gets up to answer, eating his sandwich as he walks over and lazily pulls open the door.

Suddenly Fiona, Lip, and Liam are there, crowding into the Milkovich living room with the cheeriest smiles anyone has ever smiled. Lip's got a tote back of Liam's toys slung over his shoulder and he and Fiona are both carrying bags of food from Popeyes.

Liam scampers over to greet Ian, who's sitting up in confusion.

"What're you guys doing here?" Ian asks as Liam hangs off his neck and slides down to sit beside him.

"Thought we'd go over to our brother's house and watch the game," Lip says.

"How we doin'?" Fiona asks as she starts unpacking the food. She moves the plate of misfit sandwiches over to a discarded box in order to make room for the chicken, red beans, and biscuits. It smells amazing. Debbie understands exactly why Fiona's brought it; this is a far better enticement to Ian than those terrible scrambled eggs. Fiona's learning from her mistakes.

"Neck and neck," Carl replies.

Mickey's been standing by the vestibule as the Gallaghers have taken over his living room, as if uncertain where he fits now. He steps forward, tosses the remainder of his sandwich onto the abandoned stack, and crosses his arms.

"You guys, uh, want a beer or somethin'?" he asks.

"Beer'd be great," Lip says, plopping himself down beside Carl and reaching for a drumstick. To Ian he says, "Want a breast?"

There's that delay again, but then Ian manages a wan smile. "Sure," he says.

Lip hands him the biggest piece from the box and shoots Fiona a private look. Mission accomplished.

"I'll take a beer too," Fiona says to Mickey.

Mickey seems momentarily frozen, watching Ian eat the chicken. Then he snaps back to attention and replies, "Okay."

"I'll take one too," Carl says.

"You get pop here and you know it," Mickey mutters as he heads to the kitchen.

Debbie laughs a little at how obviously worried Mickey is that Fiona's going to think he lets Carl drink beer when he comes over. Debbie's pretty sure that Mickey  _does_  let Carl drink beer when he comes over, but she's certainly not going to be the one to get Mickey in trouble.

Fiona pulls out a stack of plates and plastic forks brought from home and starts distributing them. They really have come prepared for everything.

Mickey returns with the drinks, and they set to work filling their plates. The game comes back on and, remarkably, it all feels…normal.

Fiona and Lip tag-team to keep up a steady stream of chatter while they watch the game and the food seems to put everyone in a pretty good mood. Ian doesn't say anything, and Debbie notes that they don't push him to either. He does eat some more chicken and a biscuit and finish his beer, which is more than she's seen him eat in the last three days combined. Debbie begins to relax and forget that there is anything wrong with him at all. He just seems like Ian again. Quiet and maybe not feeling great, but Ian nonetheless.

Liam falls into a post-lunch food coma and snores lightly against Ian's chest. The warmth of the preschooler atop him seems to lull Ian into the sleep he's been fighting off. For a good thirty minutes of the game, the two of them nap and everyone else does their best to keep it down and let them rest.

Until the final minute of the game, that is, when Mickey, Fiona, Lip, Debbie, and Carl all leap from their seats to scream in joy as the Jackie Robinson kids make their spectacular winning play.

Ian and Liam both startle awake as the crowd on TV and the crowd in the room roar. Debbie's jumping up and down and clapping her hands together. Fiona's planting a kiss on Mickey's cheek and hugging him like he was the one who tagged the last Nevada kid out. Lip punches the air with his beer bottle and shouts, "Fuck yeah!"

"Did we win?" Ian asks.

"We kicked their asses!" Fiona replies.

Sleepily, Ian holds up his hand for a high five and he smiles when Liam slaps him back.

The Gallaghers stick around for a little while after the game, chatting about nothing all that important. Fiona and Lip keep making awkward attempts to draw Mickey into the conversation, the shared magical experience of the baseball game having faded a little. This has the unintended effect of making Mickey clam up more and sit there with a look on his face as if he's being interrogated. Ian seems to appreciate the effort, though. Or at least Debbie thinks he does. He mostly just seems really sleepy, though.

He nods off and startles himself awake twice before they start making their excuses to go. Fiona and Carl both have to work tonight. Lip's got a paper he needs to finish. Debbie's babysitting Liam.

Like a reverse receiving line, all his siblings pass by Ian on the couch to bid him farewell. Fiona leans down to give him a hug, and Debbie does the same. Carl gives him a friendly punch and Liam hangs off his neck again to give him a kiss.

Lip shoves his hands in his pockets and says, "Give you a ride to work Monday, huh? I got Amanda's car again for the week."

"Sure," Ian says.

Fiona remembers her manners and offers to clean up the mess from lunch, but Mickey waves her off.

"Don't worry about. I got it," he says.

Then he hustles them to the door, not unfriendly, but seeming eager to have his house back to being free of extraneous Gallaghers.

Nobody says much as they walk home, but the mood is not nearly so bleak as it has been.

"You hear Terry Milkovich might be gone for good?" Fiona asks Lip.

"Yeah. Kev mentioned it last night."

"Word gets around fast."

"Yeah." Lip pauses to light a cigarette and they all wait. After he takes his first puff, he starts walking again and says, "Still wish they'd get outta this fucking neighborhood."

They're about halfway between the Milkovich house and the Gallagher house when Debbie realizes she's forgotten her purse.

"Should I just wait and get it tomorrow?" Debbie asks.

"Not that I think Mickey'd take anything out of it," Fiona says, "But I wouldn't trust those whores not to run off with your phone and your CTA card."

"Okay," Debbie says, reluctantly agreeing. Already she's wondering if one of the girls has come across her purse yet, if they've left her anything of value. "I'll see you guys at home."

She breaks away from her siblings and starts heading back to the Milkovich house, walking quickly, thinking about how annoying it'll be if she has to get a new phone. She'll probably have to downgrade to something even crappier than what she had, and she'll have lost all her pictures…Maybe she can get Mickey to shake the girls down and get it back. He's their boss, right?

Debbie gets back to the house and is not surprised at all to find the front door unlocked—no one ever locks the door at the Milkovich house. She lets herself in quietly in case Ian's sleeping on the couch.

Her purse still sitting on the floor just inside the door apparently untouched. She double-checks the contents and sighs with relief.

Then she pauses as she hears a voice from the living room.

Ian is talking. He's speaking too softly for her to make out exactly what he's saying, but his tone is different than anything she's heard in a while. He doesn't sound guarded or defensive. He doesn't sound angry or upset. He just sounds determined that whomever he's speaking to understand what he is saying.

She glances around the side of the little vestibule space. Ian's leaning against Mickey, head atop Mickey's chest. Ian's eyes are closed, so he doesn't see Debbie as he continues to talk. Mickey sees her, though he doesn't say anything.

Debbie holds up her purse to show Mickey why she was here, then waves one hand to show that she is leaving. He nods slightly, careful not to disturb Ian or alert him to his sister's presence.

She pulls the front door shut behind her as discretely as possible as she leaves. Once outside, she hesitates, though, and stands there on the porch with her hand still on the knob. For some reason, it feels like if she lets go of the knob right now then that is it; she's letting go of Ian. She'll be severing the link between his life and hers once and for good.

This is not true, though, she realizes. There is life inside the house, and there is life outside the house. But it's all part of the same world. And Ian isn't alone anymore.

Debbie lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please know that your reviews, kudos, and comments mean the world to me. I appreciate every one of them so much.
> 
> If you'd like to chat, feel free to hit me up on tumblr at [Zebra Wallpaper](http://zebrawallpaper.tumblr.com).


	11. Have Fun. Be Loud.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our story about Ian and Debbie comes to a close.

Debbie turns fourteen in early October. It happens midweek and doesn't feel different or special for most of the day. She has breakfast with Carl ('Happy Birthday, Assface') and gets texts from Fiona, Lip, Ian, and Sammi. Then she goes to her classes like any regular day, and attends the first Debate Club meeting of the year after school gets out. She's not sure she's interested in getting back into Debate again, but Elisa said it would look good on college applications, so Debbie's giving it a shot. Right now, everybody in the club seems like kind of a jerk, but she's trying to keep an open mind.

After the club meeting, Debbie wanders down to the cross-country track. She spots Ian right away, frowning over a clipboard, stopwatch in hand. He's got McKinley maroon sweats on and a heather gray t-shirt and looks absolutely unremarkable; Debbie will never understand why the girls at her lunch table keep talking about him being such a hottie. Nobody who's at the school now remembers when Ian was a student there—outside of ROTC he never made much of an impression and most of the kids who knew him graduated this past spring. But now on Tuesdays and Thursdays when Ian helps out the coach after school, Debbie is briefly popular. They ask her the stupidest, grossest questions ('Does he really have an eight-pack?' 'Does the carpet match the drapes?' 'Is his wife hot too?'), and it doesn't seem to even matter that Debbie begs off answering most of their inquiries—it's given her a weird sort of social currency.

When Ian looks up from his clipboard and spots her, he squints in the setting sunlight and gives her a half-smile. "Happy Birthday," he says in greeting.

"You coming tonight?" she asks.

"Wouldn't miss it."

"It's not that big a deal."

Ian shrugs. "Still wouldn't miss it."

A couple of girls in running shorts and sports bras giggle and wave as they leave the track and head back to the locker room. "Bye, Ian!" they call.

He looks intently at his clipboard as he tosses them a distracted wave.

Debbie rolls her eyes.

"You have ten bucks I can borrow?" she asks after the girls have passed.

Ian shifts his clipboard to the crook of his arm and takes out his wallet. He hands her two fives and then resumes writing down figures.

"Thanks," Debbie says, "I'll pay you back."

"Don't worry about it."

"No, I will."

"Okay."

"I have to buy tickets for Homecoming," Debbie explains, even though he didn't ask.

"They charge you to go to the game now?" Ian asks, appearing slightly offended at the notion.

"No. It's for the dance."

"Ah," Ian replies and swiftly returns his attention to his clipboard, but Debbie can see that he's struggling not to smile.

"Stop it," she says.

"Stop what?" He asks innocently as he continues pretending that his clipboard is the most engrossing thing ever.

"Just stop it."

Ian clears his throat and glances over at the remaining girls walking the track before he returns his attention to Debbie. "So," he asks, "Seven, right?"

"Please be nice to him," Debbie begs, suddenly panicked, "Please?"

Ian's eyes shift from amused to sympathetic. "Listen," he says, giving her a very coach-like pat on the shoulder, "I'll try and keep Lip and Carl on good behavior."

"And Mickey too. Please."

Ian just smiles at that. "I gotta finish up," he says as he begins walking back toward the coach. Then when he's a few yards away, he turns back and shouts, "It's Fiona you should be worried about!"

"Oh, God," Debbie mutters, realizing he's right.

* * *

 

Debbie attempts to do some homework when she gets back to the house, she really does. She's way too excited to concentrate, though. So instead she tries on clothes for a while, nixing about fourteen different options before settling on something that she thinks looks about as close to hot as she's going to get without bringing on her brothers' scorn or Fiona's disapproval. Then she spends a full hour working on her hair, locking Carl out of the bathroom, to his great annoyance.

While she fusses with the curling iron, she keeps her phone balanced on the edge of the sink and checks periodically for messages.

Joaquin waited until the very last day of swim lessons to ask Debbie for her phone number. Since then, however, they've been messaging back and forth frequently, though finding time to actually see each other has been difficult. He lives in Little Village, which isn't exactly far away, but it isn't exactly close either. Debbie's still working up in Lincoln Park a couple days a week after school, and Joaquin works too, bagging groceries and corralling carts at Jewel. Mostly they just talk on the phone and text and Snapchat. A lot.

Debbie doesn't mind it, really; Joaquin's funny and she likes hearing him tell stories about his four younger siblings and all his crazy older cousins. She just keeps wondering, though, if this might be all there is. They've managed to meet up twice, both times at the arcade, and while it was fun, all they did was play games and talk and share a basket of nachos one time. It hit her as she was walking home from that second get-together that Joaquin just thinks of her as a friend.

It figures. Why would anyone not messed up want to be anything more than friends with Debbie? Still, she's tried to appreciate it for what it is. Joaquin's fun. She infinitely prefers talking to him to talking with Holly and Ellie. He isn't dumb as a bag of hammers, for one thing, and he also actually seems interested in what Debbie has to say, for another. It sucks that he's so cute and has no interest in her that way (it hurts, if she's really being honest, it hurts  _a lot_ ), though it's nice to have someone to talk to who isn't way older or way younger or stupid as shit.

But he asked if she wanted to go to the Homecoming dance together. When she'd first gotten the text, Debbie had screamed into her pillow, she was so excited. Then the next text had come:

_Go as a group with my friends?_

And Debbie's excitement has died off completely. Almost completely. There's still room for that to not be a 'just as friends' thing, right? And even if not, it still means she gets to go to the dance. Matty had ended up having to work the night of the last dance, so Debbie hadn't gone at all. She'd told herself she didn't care, but of course she did. Getting to go to Homecoming with a friend who's cute and whom everyone will likely assume is her boyfriend isn't such a bad consolation. She wishes it was different, but she's Debbie Gallagher. She's learned to take what she can get.

Debbie sighs and gives herself one last look in the mirror. At least her hair looks nice.

* * *

 

Lip's already arrived by the time Debbie comes back downstairs. He and Carl are watching a video on his phone at the table and Fiona's sliding a big disposable pan into the oven. They're having lasagna stolen from the Chi Poly cafeteria again, which isn't much of a birthday dinner, but money's been really tight since they turned on the furnace for the first time of the season and it burst into flames. They paid for a repairman who charged them to come out and announce after a ten second inspection that there was nothing he could do. Then they had to pay for a new furnace and installation. Then they had to pay for some new ductwork to replace the stuff that had gotten damaged by the fire. Then they discovered they needed to replace the gas line when the whole house started smelling funny. The squirrel fund, needless to say, has gotten almost as slim as it was when Fiona was first on probation. And it's only October.

"Hey, Amanda sent you this," Lip says as he pulls a glittery gift bag out of his backpack. It's all dented and bent up. Debbie can tell it probably looked a lot nicer before Lip was given custody of it. He hands it over and wipes glitter off his palms with annoyance.

Debbie pulls out the tissue paper and finds a bunch of bottles of body wash and lotion with cutesy names. She unscrews the cap of a bottle of "red velvet cupcake" lotion, sniffs, and makes a face.

"Why'd she give me this?" she asks.

"Suckin' up, I guess," Lip replies. "There's a card too."

Debbie frowns as she opens the envelope. She cannot imagine having any less interest in whatever Amanda would write on a birthday card. As Debbie opens the card, though, a hundred dollar bill falls out.

"Oh, shit," Debbie says.

"No fair!" Carl cries.

Fiona glances over Debbie's shoulder and says, "Well, that was nice of her." To Lip she says, "Let's try and keep her around, huh? It's still a couple months 'til my birthday."

Debbie tosses the card in the garbage and then grabs the squirrel fund canister out of the cabinet.

"Hey, what're ya doin'?" Fiona asks, snatching the canister from Debbie's grasp, "That's your money."

"No, it's not," Debbie argues, "It's Amanda's money. I don't want it."

"I'll take it," Carl volunteers.

Fiona looks to Lip, then back to Debbie. "Take something," Fiona says. It's clear in the tension of her face that she understands as well as Debbie how much help that hundred could be. But it'll wound her pride to accept the whole amount.

Debbie bites her lip then says, "Can I have ten bucks?"

"Of course," Fiona laughs with relief. She plucks a ten from the canister and trades it to Debbie for the hundred then tucks the hundred safely in the bottom of the can.

"Don't spend it all in one place," Lip remarks and sips his beer.

Debbie pockets the ten and wanders into the living room to wait for Ian. She's hoping she can pay him back without Fiona seeing and getting all annoyed that Debbie borrowed money from him again.

She tosses herself onto the couch and feels a little depressed as she gazes over all the crap everywhere and the broken furniture and the lampshades that never sit straight. Originally, she'd planned to spend a couple hours making the house more presentable, cleaning the garbage and the dog crap off the front lawn, but what's the point? Joaquin's gonna know what her life's really like after tonight anyway, just like he's going to find out what a loser she really is when they go to the dance together next week. And what does it matter? It's not like she's going to be his girlfriend. Then it might matter. But if they're just friends anyway, who cares if he knows how ugly her life is? It doesn't matter that much if you're  _just friends_.

Faintly, Debbie can hear Mickey's voice outside, coming down the sidewalk. He's ranting about something. It's a sound that's become very familiar.

Debbie hurries to meet them before they get to the house so Fiona won't be witness to the payback. When Debbie hops down the front steps, Ian and Mickey have reached the Gallagher's front yard. Mickey's just finished saying something emphatically, eyebrows still high, and Ian's shaking his head. "That's not how it works, Mick," he says.

Mickey's got a great big box in his arms. From the pictures on the outside, it appears to have once held a humidifier, probably something they'd picked up for Yevgeny. Ian's also carrying a box, though a much smaller one. Debbie smiles as she sees the printing on the side.

"You got a coffee cake from Weber's!" she cheers.

"Yeah," Ian smiles upon seeing her, "Fiona asked me to pick it up. Blueberry coconut, right?"

Debbie's smile fades, but Ian squints elaborately at the ticket taped to the top of the box and says, "Oh, sorry. Strawberry cream cheese."

Debbie punches him on the arm. "That's not even funny," she says.

Ian seems to disagree, and Mickey already seems done with both of them. "This is gettin' heavy," he says, referring to the humidifier box, "Can we take this little show inside, please?"

Then Debbie tries to give Ian back the ten dollars she borrowed earlier and things get a little stupid. "Just keep it," Ian repeatedly insists, but Debbie is determined to give it back to him.

Mickey watches them play hot potato with the money and finally intervenes, grabbing the ten from Debbie and shoving it in his pocket.

"Yours, mine, and ours and all that shit," he says to Ian. Then he looks over Debbie's shoulder and asks, "Who's this joker?"

Debbie turns around and her heart practically falls out of her chest as she sees Joaquin. He's strolling down the sidewalk towards them, carrying a Jewel bag with a bunch of tinfoil-wrapped bundles inside it. How has she forgotten how gorgeous he is? And she's never seen him in a sweater before. How has she forgotten how good a sweater can look on a cute boy? Oh, god.

"My grandma made tamales," Joaquin announces, holding up the bag as he reaches the gate.

Debbie can't seem to find her voice for a few seconds. Then she manages to say, "Hi."

"Hey," Joaquin replies.

The four of them stand there awkwardly on the sidewalk until Mickey says, "Who the hell are you?"

"This is my friend Joaquin," Debbie says, feeling like English has become a foreign language and she's struggling to create simple syntax. To Joaquin, she says, "This is my brother and his husband."

For an awful moment, she wonders if Joaquin's going to be weirded out. Debbie's never mentioned that her brother's gay, let alone that he's married to a guy. It's just not something that's ever come up. Joaquin doesn't appear put-off, though. He holds out his hand, and Ian takes it.

Ian gives his name since Debbie apparently isn't going to and adds, "This is Mickey."

"Cool," Joaquin says. He reaches for Mickey's hand, but Mickey acts like he needs both hands to hold the box. He gives Joaquin a wary look.

"How fuckin' old are you?" Mickey asks.

Debbie's cheeks go red, and Ian darts in to try and smooth it over. "What year are you in school?" Ian asks.

"Uh, I'm a junior," Joaquin replies a little uncertainly.

"That'd make you what—seventeen?" Mickey asks.

"Sixteen."

"Yeah, all right," Mickey says, losing interest in him now. To Ian, he says, "Let's get this shit inside already."

"Nice meeting you," Ian says over his shoulder as he and Mickey head up the steps, "Tamales smell good."

As they stand out in the yard alone, Debbie doesn't know what to say to Joaquin. She settles on, "Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for inviting me. It's cool to meet your family."

"I guess."

It's like they haven't spent the past eight weeks talking each other's ears off and burning through their data limits. It's awful. But then he smiles and it's not so bad.

In the living room, they catch Fiona in the act of last-minute straightening. It's kind of an impossible task, but Debbie's touched that her sister tried, anyway.

Fiona stands up with an armful of Liam's toys, an empty potato chip bag, and three abandoned beer bottles.

"You must be Joaquin," she smiles.

"Yeah. Hi."

"This is Fiona," Debbie explains, "She's my sister."

"Cool."

Fiona spies another bottle tucked between the arm of the couch and a cushion and she reaches for it. As she does, she asks casually, "What year are you in school, Joaquin?"

"Junior."

"Seventeen?" Fiona asks, having successfully added the bottle to her pile. She ignores Debbie's glare.

"Sixteen," he says, "I don't turn seventeen 'til next summer."

"Great!" Fiona says, "That's wonderful."

Joaquin is trying to keep a polite smile on his face, but Debbie can tell he is puzzled.

"So, you guys got a big date next week, huh?" Fiona asks, "Not plannin' anything for after are ya?"

Fiona's smile disintegrates as she notices Debbie's look of horror.

"Uh," Joaquin hesitates, but Debbie grabs his arm.

"Come on," Debbie says, dragging him away and turning to give Fiona a ' _what is wrong with you?'_  face, "Let's go get something to drink."

In the kitchen, Mickey, Ian, and Lip are drinking beer at the table. Lip's going on about something, and Ian is listening while Mickey appears completely bored. Carl's digging through the fridge.

"This is Carl," Debbie says without fanfare, "That's Lip."

Carl peers over the fridge door, sizing Joaquin up. "You're not, like, twenty-eight, or something, are you?"

Joaquin shakes his head in confusion.

"What year are you in school?" Lip asks from the table. Debbie could strangle him.

"I'm a junior," Joaquin repeats for the third time.

"He's sixteen," Mickey says, waving Lip off, "It's all right."

Ian chokes on his beer just then and Mickey turns to him and scowls. "What's so funny now, asshole?"

"Nothing," Ian swears, wiping his mouth and trying not to smile.

"What's in the bag?" Carl asks Joaquin, interrupting Mickey's icy stare-down at Ian that seems like it was maybe about to turn into something, "That smells good."

"My grandma made tamales," Joaquin explains again. He looks so uncomfortable that Debbie wishes she could rush him out of the house and away from her stupid family. Why did she ever invite him tonight?  _How_  is she still such an idiot about everything?

"Fuck!" Carl exclaims with excitement, "Real food!" He gives Joaquin a gentle shove toward the back of the kitchen and says, "Come on, man, get it on the table."

This seems to break the tension finally. Joaquin starts unwrapping tamales at the table, and everybody grabs them up eagerly, exclaiming in gastronomic ecstasy. It's a little over the top, but the tamales are definitely way better than anything they've had in the house for ages. Fiona comes in and insists on giving them all plates and napkins. Then, somehow, everyone's eating and talking around the dinner table and it's actually kind of okay. The lasagna is served and they eat that too, and there is teasing and a lot of funny stories and Debbie remembers that her family can actually be quite entertaining.

Joaquin is pretty reserved for the most part, and it reminds Debbie of how Mickey is at the family dinners, same as he is tonight, just sitting there and clearly listening to what everyone's saying, but not participating unless someone asks him something directly. The Gallagher siblings have a tendency to be overwhelming like that. It's become sort of a joke that Fiona makes a point to ask Mickey one question during every meal and that half the time, Ian answers for him. Tonight it's Carl who plays the Fiona role for their guest.

"You go to Little Village-Lawndale, right?" he asks Joaquin.

Joaquin nods.

Carl grins. "We kicked your asses last week."

"Oh, yeah," Joaquin says, "You're on the McKinley football team, right?"

And Carl seems torn between being embarrassed and being proud. "Just second-string JV," he confesses.

"Yeah, but you're just a freshman, man," Joaquin replies, reaching for another slice of rubbery lasagna, "It's sick you're even on the bench."

Carl looks pleased with himself, and on either side of him Debbie sees Lip and Ian exchanging a conspiratorial look. It's been ages since she caught one of those passing between them.

After cake (so good) and singing (never very good), there are presents. Carl's gotten Debbie several packages of dollar store gummi bears, which were her favorite when she was seven. It's nice that he remembered, even if they look horribly unappetizing from her fourteen-year-old perspective.

"Sorry it's a socks kinda year," Fiona apologizes as Debbie unwraps the expected family gift.

Debbie smiles, and all the Gallaghers say along with her the same thing they all always say when it's a socks kinda birthday, "I can always use more socks."

Debbie wasn't expecting anything from Lip since his work-study hours got cut back, but he tosses a Chi Poly sweatshirt on the table for her.

"How did you buy this?" Debbie can't help but ask, as she runs her fingers over the embroidered letters on the front.

Lip shrugs modestly, but Ian's shaking his head.

"He boosted it from the bookstore," Ian says with disgust, "They've been on a display table in the front all week. You're gonna get yourself expelled."

Lip doesn't seem fussed by Ian's disapproval. To Joaquin he says, "Sorry, pal. We're a family of thieves and liars. Debbie's the innocent one, though. Don't hold it against her."

Joaquin, the angel, smiles.

Mickey elbows Ian and says, "Give her the thing. I gotta go."

Ian leans under the table and hauls up the humidifier box. He hesitates for a moment, looking for a clear space on the table that's big enough then he gives up and sets it at Debbie's feet with a thud.

"Have fun," he says, "Be loud."

Debbie gasps as she pulls open the flaps on the top and reveals a compact amplifier.

"Guys," Fiona starts, "You can't aff—"

But Mickey cuts her off as he stands up, "Fell off the back of a truck."

He gives Ian a peck on the temple and says, "See ya tonight."

Ian watches him go, then turns back to Debbie. "That the right kinda one?" he asks.

"Yeah," she replies, still amazed, "But, really. How'd you—"

"Iggy knows a guy," Ian shrugs, "There's a cable in there too. He said you'd probably need one."

Debbie's so overwhelmed by all their unexpected generosity that she doesn't even see at first that Joaquin's taken out a little box from his pocket.

"Here," he says, setting it in front of her.

Debbie is taken aback. "You didn't have to get me a present," she says.

"It's your birthday."

"Yeah, but…"

"Just open it up already," Carl complains, "I got a call I gotta make."

Ian and Fiona both give Carl a look of curiosity, but Debbie's not paying attention to them. She's more interested in the earrings she finds in the box. They're dangly, beaded ones, more like something Fiona would wear than the practical studs Debbie favors. Still, they're pretty. And Joaquin picked them out. For  _her_.

"I know you said your dress for Homecoming's purple," Joaquin explains hastily, his ears flushed pink, "My mom said these would go. You don't have to wear them or anything."

Debbie looks up at him in shock and says, "You remembered what I said. You listened to me."

Beside her, Fiona's brought her hand to her mouth and is looking across the table at Ian and Lip.

Joaquin smiles shyly and looks back down at his coffee cake. Debbie feels shy too and looks back at the earrings. They couldn't have been more than eight bucks at Claire's, but they're now the most stunning jewelry Debbie's ever seen in her life.

"Are we done?" Carl says, interrupting the moment, "Can I go now?"

"Go," Fiona waves him off, "Go do whatever it is that's so important."

"Yeah," Lip says and rises from the table after Carl's plowed his way up the stairs, "I better head out too. Got a quiz in the morning and I haven't started the chapter yet."

"Thanks for the sweater," Debbie says, tearing her eyes away from the earrings.

"No problem," Lip says and gives her a half-hug, "Happy Birthday, Debs."

To Ian, Lip says, "You wanna get a drink when you get off tomorrow?"

"Can't," Ian answers simply.

"Okay," Lip replies, "Some other time."

He gives them all a wave, hoists up his backpack and heads out.

They all sit there for a few beats as awkwardness descends once again until Fiona stands up and says to Liam, "Time for somebody's bath."

As Fiona leads Liam up the stairs, Ian too hops up for an excuse. "Let me take that up to your room for you," he says to Debbie, picking up the amplifier, "It weighs a ton."

After Ian goes, it's just Debbie and Joaquin. They talk for a little bit about nothing too important. He asks about the guitar and she goes on for maybe longer than she should about bar chords and how once you learn those you can play almost anything. Then he tells her a story about his dumb cousin Marco. Joaquin has a lot of stories about his dumb cousin Marco, and Debbie's gotten fond of hearing them. Joaquin's impression of Marco, who's always drunk or high or both, always makes her giggle.

Eventually, though, Joaquin has to go back home and Debbie walks him out. It's dead quiet on the street for once, and in the clear autumn night the old houses almost look quaint.

"This was fun," he says as they reach the end of the walkway.

"I'm sorry they're such dorks."

"Nah," he says, "your family's cool."

Debbie doesn't know what to say after that, and it gets awkward again. But it doesn't matter because suddenly Joaquin is kissing her.

His lips are surprisingly soft, and he tastes faintly of strawberry and cream cheese and Weber's flaky pastry. It's like he was manufactured in heaven to Debbie's exact preferences.

There isn't any tongue, but that's okay because she doesn't want it right now. She just wants the gentle pressure of his lips molding to hers, the warmth of his being connecting with her own lonely self.

When he starts to end the kiss at a reasonable point, Debbie kisses back forcefully, extending it. She simultaneously wants every molecule of him and wants nothing more than this.

His hand at the back of her head is unexpected and somehow more than she can take at this moment in time, though. She collapses against him and reluctantly allows it to end.

As she straightens back to standing on her own two feet, He looks down at her with his sweet brown eyes and asks, "Was that all right?"

She smiles like an idiot. "Yeah."

"Well, cool," he says. He looks a little embarrassed but also relieved. "Call you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," she says again.

She watches him walk down the street in the direction of the bus stop. She watches him go until he turns the corner, and she can't see him anymore. Then she watches the empty space of where he was, feeling like she just might throw up. It's the happiest nausea she's ever had.

"Just friends, my ass," she whispers.

Then she dances her way back up the steps.

* * *

 

Inside the house, Debbie lingers, not wanting to see anyone else just yet and allow the magic still tingling in her fingertips to be tainted.

She wanders over to the ledge where they've got all their family pictures framed, along with Lip's high school diploma (still the only one anyone in this family has ever gotten), as well as Debbie's honor roll certificates, and Carl's peewee football trophies. There's a space where Ian's ROTC awards used to be displayed, but they're not here anymore. Debbie's not sure if he took them away himself, or if Fiona removed them, but Debbie smears the dust over the bare spot to help disguise the absence. Then she picks up the newest addition to the shelf—a photo of Ian and Mickey standing outside of the courthouse on Randolph, one of the ones Fiona snapped on her phone—and Debbie scoots it over to make things look more even.

She steps back to inspect the composition. It looks better than it did before, and she is satisfied, feeling an unprecedented amount of affection for her family, and everybody, really, right now.

In the kitchen, she finds Fiona washing dishes while Liam colors in clean pajamas at the table.

"Did Ian go?" Debbie asks, disappointed that he didn't say goodbye.

Fiona turns from the sink, her eyes searching Debbie over, looking for signs of a make-out session, surely. "I think he's upstairs," she says, hiding a little smirk.

Debbie can't bring herself to be too annoyed at her sister. She maybe even gives her a half a smile before heading up the stairs.

As Debbie heads into the boys' room, she hears Carl say to someone on the phone, "Yeah, you  _like_  that. I bet you do."

But Ian's not in the room with him. The second that Carl sees Debbie, he's up from the desk and shoving her back out the door. "Get the fuck out," he snarls and slams the door behind her.

"Jeez," Debbie mutters, "Excuse me."

Ian is not in the bathroom, nor Fiona's room, nor Debbie's room. But Frank's old room is freezing when Debbie pops her head in and, seeing the open window, she understands where Ian has gone. She pulls a milk crate over to the window, steps up and climbs out.

Ian is sitting with his back to Debbie when she hoists herself up onto the flat part of the roof. From the slow movement of his arm, she can tell that he is smoking, which is strange because she's pretty sure he's given it up. Then her nose crinkles at the scent and she realizes he's not smoking tobacco.

He cranes his head around to see who's come up and a look of guilt passes over his face.

"Don't say anything to anybody, okay?" he says as she sits down beside him, "I'll never hear the end of it."

Of all the secrets Debbie has kept for him, this one seems pretty minor, though she has to fight herself not to express her disapproval. Sometimes nagging is pointless.

"Okay," she agrees. Then she asks, "What're you doing up here?"

He holds his smoke in for a moment, closes his eyes, then exhales languidly and replies, "Just wanted a couple minutes to myself."

Later, Debbie will think back and decide that she probably should have volunteered to leave him in peace when he said that, but right now the thought doesn't cross her mind. She scoots closer, and he moves over a little so that they can both have some of the chimney to lean back against.

Debbie shivers in the nighttime chill. Without a word, Ian shrugs out of his hoodie and gives it to her. It's still warm as she puts it on, and it droops low over her shoulders. It smells like pot and the Milkovich house. Debbie wonders idly when it was that Ian stopped smelling like their house and started smelling like his own home.

"Joaquin kissed me," she says out of the blue, needing to tell someone, "When we were saying goodbye."

"Nice," Ian says with a little smile, "First time he kissed you?"

"Yeah. I thought he just wanted to be friends."

Ian shakes his head. "He doesn't wanna just be friends."

And Debbie can't stop smiling at this confirmation.

"I really like him," she says.

"Well, he is cute," Ian says and laughs as Debbie hits him.

"Little old for you, though," Ian adds and Debbie hits him again.

"You're all horrible," she says.

Ian doesn't disagree. He takes another deep hit and leans back, staring up into the black sky as he holds it in, then he exhales. There's a clear moon tonight and in the moonlight and the streetlight shining up from below, Ian looks white as a sheet of paper. Debbie holds her hand out and notes that it is just as pale. She wonders if Joaquin finds that pretty, or if it grosses him out and it's something he's just decided to look past. In either case, she's glad, though she'd prefer if he thought it was pretty. She's fairly certain guys don't find that pretty, though. Someday she plans to get a spray tan.

Feeling cocky and grown-up and still adventurous from the kiss, Debbie reaches out for the joint, but Ian raises his arm away from her.

"No way," he says.

"Come on. It's my birthday."

"Doesn't mean anything goes."

"Lip and Fiona would let me," Debbie says before it occurs to her that this is a useless argument. Ian thinks of himself as more sensible than Fiona and Lip, just as Fiona thinks she's more sensible than Ian and Lip, and just how Lip thinks he's more sensible than the entire rest of the world.

So Debbie tries a different tact. "Mickey would let me."

Ian snorts at this. "Not if he ever wanted to get laid again," he says.

"Ew. I don't want to have to picture that."

"Yeah," Ian replies, mortified, "Don't."

Debbie turns her hand around in the moonlight again and puts it next to Ian's bare forearm to compare.

"Don't you hate being so pale?" she asks.

He turns his arm back and forth just as Debbie had.

"Sunscreen's a bitch," he says after a moment of consideration, "But I dunno. Mostly I don't care. The hair's worse. People act like we're fucking unicorns. It's just hair."

"Yeah," Debbie agrees, burying her hand back into the warmth of the big hoodie. She's always been baffled by the attention people paid to her hair color. The temptation to dye her hair has certainly crossed her mind a few times, just so she could see for a while what it's like not to always have people commenting. But then, she'd also lose sort of the only thing she has that makes her special.

"People are so creepy about it sometimes," Ian continues, "I'm not a walking fetish, you know? It gets old fast. Really old."

He takes another deep drag and holds it, shaking his head in condemnation. Then he lets it out and says, "Whole world's full of creeps."

This sounds to Debbie like something Mickey would say, like they're starting to seep into each other's brains. This is also far more forthcoming than Ian generally is. But being high has always seemed to have that effect on him, even when it renders Fiona a giggly idiot and Lip more obnoxiously fervent in his philosophical beliefs than usual. This has usually been just more grounds for Debbie's previous disinterest in ever smoking weed, but tonight she is a new, different Debbie, and she recognizes an opportunity, one far better than her first puff of marijuana. Still feeling bold, she seizes on it.

"Ian?"

"Mmm?"

Then she hesitates, abruptly feeling scared, almost sick, her toes curling over the edge of the diving board once more. But it's now or never, so she goes for it.

"Do you think Clayton is my dad too?"

Ian is quiet for a long time, pondering the lit joint as if Debbie isn't even here and he's just killing time alone like he had wanted. Then he turns to her. His eyes are glassy and his pupils look like big blobs of ink, but there's solemnity in them.

"What does it matter?" he asks.

"It matters a lot," she replies, appalled that this is the response she finally gets after all these years of wondering, after all the times she almost asked but didn't.

He shakes his head as he takes another toke. When he speaks again it's a little premature, and his voice is hoarse. "It doesn't matter at all, Debs. Family's not about that."

Debbie sets her jaw in frustration. This is not the answer she wanted. This is not an answer at all.

Ian can see that she's upset, but he doesn't seem interested in fixing it. He gives her an apologetic smile and looks away.

Being met with the back of his head at this very important moment of inquiry, Debbie's annoyance propels her to start making her case, whether he's interested in hearing it or not.

"I don't look anything like Frank," she states.

He looks back at her nonchalantly.

"Neither does Fiona," he replies. Then he laughs and adds, "Neither does Liam."

"And I don't look like anyone else in the family but you."

"Debs…"

"And we're both quiet and we're both nice."

"You're pretty mean sometimes," Ian says, smiling at his own teasing despite Debbie's dour expression.

"And we both like ketchup on our eggs when nobody else here does…" she adds.

Ian laughs at this, which makes Debbie so furious she almost starts crying.

"Stop making fun of me," she says and kicks out hard at his leg, "It's not funny to me."

He jerks his leg back and rubs his knee where her shoe connected with him. He gives Debbie a wary look though it gradually softens into something like regret.

Neither of them says anything for a bit. Ian continues to rub his injured leg and Debbie feels a little bad for hurting him, but not really. He deserved it. And she's still pissed.

"I don't see what the big deal is," Ian says eventually, "Your family's the people who are there for you. Who cares about DNA? It doesn't matter."

Debbie scowls. "That's easy for you to say.  _You_  got to know. I wanna know."

Ian trains his eyes on her, as if taking measurements of her face. He doesn't shrink under her fierce glare, but he looks away as he says, "I wish I didn't know, okay? Just one more shitty gift from Monica."

Why is he so frustrating? Debbie sits back hard against the crumbling brick.

"But didn't it make you glad to know you weren't Frank's?" she asks.

"No," he replies without looking back at her, "It didn't."

And Debbie becomes gentler in her tone because Ian's starting to sound a little upset. "But he's better than Frank, at least" she says.

"No, he's not," Ian says, turning back to her, his expression surprisingly emphatic, "I met him. He's not. He's got more money and a nice house and stuff, but—"

Debbie sits forward. "You met him? When?"

One more secret out in the open. The annoyance at his own fuck-up is immediately apparent on Ian's face. But he does answer her.

"Back when we first found out," he says, frowning as he recalls the memory, "Lip wouldn't shut up about it. I didn't want to go, but Lip made me and it sucked. Clayton's a dick, all right? He knew I was his kid; He looked at me and he  _knew_. But he didn't say shit about it. He knew where we lived. He knew  _how_  we lived. He coulda come by and said something. Did something. He never fucking did anything. He's a pussy just like Frank. A shithead. You're better off not knowing. You're better off just forgetting you're related to either of those assholes in the first place. You don't need 'em."

Debbie is quiet as she processes this. She doesn't know what she had expected Clayton to be like; he's Frank's brother, after all. Aside from Nana at the end, nobody in Frank's family has ever been decent, let alone kind, to them. It's a disappointment to hear this—God, where does she still get all this dumb hope from?—but it's not surprising. Debbie's more intrigued now at Ian's tone in recounting this. There's more to this story than Clayton just being a spineless jerk. She's not sure what, though.

"What happened when you guys met him?" Debbie asks cautiously.

Ian doesn't reply. He drums his fingers over his thigh and takes another hit off the joint.

She prompts him again, "What happened?"

And Ian gives her a bitter smile. "Lip tried to pawn me off on him," he says simply.

"What?"

"He did. Tried to talk me into going to Clayton and his stupid wife and guilting them into…I dunno, adopting me, or something. He said I could have a nice life with them…"

Debbie is speechless. She cannot imagine that Lip actually tried to give Ian away like an unwanted dog that's pissed on the carpet one too many times. Surely Ian's memory is clouded by some weird brotherly resentment. Or maybe it's the pot. Mentally, she scolds herself for even contemplating trying it tonight. New Debbie might be bolder than old Debbie, but she shouldn't have worse judgment.

"He'll probably try the same thing with you," Ian adds, "Try and ship you off to the suburbs with strangers. Like family doesn't mean anything. Guess once you're just half-family, it doesn't matter anymore."

Then Debbie understands. Lip didn't try to push Ian out of the family. Lip saw an opportunity for Ian to have a better chance in life and tried to talk him into taking it. But of course Ian didn't see it that way. And of course they've never resolved this misunderstanding. Because they're both stupid idiots.

But the thing she doesn't get is why if Ian had a chance to get out of here he didn't take it. Resentment and hurt feelings aside, he's been trying to get out of this neighborhood his whole life. Why would he turn a chance like that down? Just because it was Lip's idea?

Debbie watches him smoke, sees the pain that had settled into the lines of his face smooth away again as he exhales. He is not the fragile, emotional mess he was the last time they sat up here together. He's just as strong and relaxed as he ever was tonight. Superman on his smoke break.

There's no need to be afraid to ask him, so she does.

"Why didn't you go?"

Ian cocks his head, puzzled. "With Clayton you mean?"

"Yeah. Lip was right. You could've had a way better life. You could've gotten out. Isn't that what you always wanted?"

His eyes go wide. "Not if it meant losing you guys," he explains, "I'd never do that."

"But you did," she says before she can stop herself, "You went away. You left us behind and you didn't care."

"No," he says, and he looks genuinely distraught, "I did care. I hated leaving you guys."

"Then why did you do it?"

"Because I thought I had to. I was out of my goddamned mind, all right? If I stayed here any longer, I don't know what I would've done."

Debbie eyes her brother with disdain. This sounds dangerously close to the kind of shit Monica used to say to justify her selfish behavior.

Ian seems to recognize that as quickly as he's said it. He gestures emptily into the air, showing the uselessness of this statement.

"But that's not an excuse," he says, "I'm sorry."

It's the first time he's ever apologized for leaving. And somehow it's enough to staunch that wound. Debbie tucks the apology into an invisible pocket and knows she will not need to hear him say it again.

Debbie gazes out over their neighborhood, the run-down houses, the trash-filled yards, the pothole-filled alleys with half the safety lights busted out at all times. For the longest time, everything she had known, every person she had known, existed within the bounds of what could be seen from the roof of this little house. And right now, Ian's still within that range. If Debbie were to walk to the North edge of the roof and lean to see around the Johnsons' house, she could just make out a tiny bit of the Milkoviches' squat little bungalow tucked between a bunch of other roofs. It's been a comforting thought in the back of her head for a while now.

"But you're gonna leave again," she points out, not really sure what she wants him to say in response to that, but feeling like she needs to bring it up.

"What're you talking about?"

"You and Mickey. You're gonna move away, aren't you? Lip says you'll have to. Too many people know about you. He's says it's only a matter of time before somebody around here comes after you."

Ian's mouth becomes a straight line and Debbie gets the impression that he is trying very hard not to role his eyes.

"Lip says this neighborhood isn't safe for you," she continues, feeling a little panicky about the fact that Ian doesn't seem to understand the seriousness of this, "He says you're just asking for trouble if you're not already saving up to move. I mean, I don't want you to go away, but Lip says—"

"I know what Lip says."

"But isn't he right?"

Ian doesn't answer that question, so Debbie asks him another, "Don't you want that, though? A nicer life?"

Ian takes a deep breath and Debbie is relieved to see that he doesn't look annoyed with her. If anything, he looks a little amused by her concern.

He slumps back against the brick and says, "I don't know what I want anymore. I spent years knowing exactly what I wanted, then it was gone, just like that," he snaps his fingers, "I think I want to just take some time now  _not_  knowing what I want. I'm taking time off from having plans."

He takes another drag and then laughs as he exhales, "Fuck plans."

Debbie can only manage to give him a half-smile at that. She doesn't know what Ian is without a plan. She doesn't think he really knows either.

"Come on, Debs," he says playfully, "Don't get all grumpy on your birthday."

This is right. It is her birthday. And Debbie will be damned if she doesn't get an answer to every last question she has.

"Does Clayton look like us?" she asks, glaring at Ian with an intensity that makes it clear he's not getting off with bullshit responses.

"He looks just like me," he responds calmly.

"So, he looks like me too?"

"I guess."

"You think he's probably my dad?" Debbie asks, her heartbeat speeding up.

Ian looks deeply uncomfortable, but when he answers, he sounds like he's being honest and not trying to play coy.

"I don't know," he says, "He's Frank's brother, right? No reason you can't look like him and still be Frank's kid. What are the odds of Monica sleeping with him again four years apart?

Debbie tilts her head a little because the odds, frankly, are pretty good.

Ian smiles, understanding Debbie's thought loud and clear. "And getting pregnant both times," he adds.

Debbie supposes this makes it a little less likely, even if Monica always did seem to get pregnant at the drop of a hat.

"So, what do you really think?" she asks.

Ian pauses to consider his answer. He considers it for an unbearable amount of time, sucking the last little bit of life out of the joint. Then he stubs it out and says, "Stork brought you."

"Huh?"

He smiles to himself and repeats, "The stork brought you. That's what Monica told me when you were born. Only I didn't know what a stork was. I thought she said the 'store' brought you. Thought she ordered you from Jewel, or something. Like a sheet cake. Or, you know, one of those party trays of chicken?"

"Ian!"

"Maybe you came in one of those plastic tubs from the deli. You know, like the potato salad comes in? The kind you have to pull at the top all the way around to get open?" He mimes pulling the lid off a quart container as he says this, and Debbie can picture exactly what he's talking about.

"I didn't come in a potato salad container!" she cries, giggling despite herself.

He puts on an air of false offense and says, "How do you know?"

Then Debbie gives up. Ian is never going to give her an answer that's satisfying. She readjusts his big hoodie over her shoulders and says, "You're stoned."

"You're the one who asked."

"I don't know why I bothered."

"'Cause you always bother. That's what Debbie does. Debbie bothers."

"Well, I won't anymore."

"Nah," he says, putting his arm around her and pulling her close, "Keep bothering, all right? We'd all fall apart if you didn't."

"I don't bother people."

"You don't."

"I help."

"You do. Saint Debbie."

Debbie settles into the safe space between Ian's arm and his chest and relaxes against him. She knows he probably has to go home soon, back to his own life. And eventually she'll have to get back to hers, doing the homework she put off, planning stuff out for tomorrow, maybe exchanging a couple of messages with Joaquin, trying to somehow get some sleep tonight. But right now she just wants to be here with her brother.

"Will you stay a little longer?" she asks.

"Sure," he replies and kisses the top of her head, "As long as you like."

Usually, the scent of autumn air at night makes Debbie feel melancholy and anxious. It smells like the end of summer freedom, the start of another miserable school year, and winter with all the badness it always brings with it creeping over the horizon. But tonight, the wind blows over them and she doesn't mind what it brings with it. It's hard to feel scared of anything when Superman's got his arm around you.

But Ian isn't Superman anymore. He never was. He is strong, though. Not because he is perfect, as Debbie once believed, but because he has survived. And, somehow, that makes Debbie feel stronger too, like each new mountain of shit they're forced to scale makes them tougher. And wiser. Like it all amounts to something in the end.

Debbie rests her head against Ian's warm chest, feels his heart beating faintly beneath his t-shirt, and she looks out over the neighborhood without fear.

Tonight they are all invincible.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends this little tale about Ian and Debbie. Thank you so much to everyone who's read and supported this story. I've had a blast writing it and sharing it with you all. If you've enjoyed it, please do let me know; your feedback is a delight. 
> 
> Thanks again--you guys are the best!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Redheaded Stepchildren Fanmix](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2377904) by [EudociaCovert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EudociaCovert/pseuds/EudociaCovert)




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